


i am your boy

by GenOfEve



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Album: Glass Animals | ZABA, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Not Video Bloggers, Alternate Universe - Photographer, Fae & Fairies, Forest Sex, Forests, M/M, Magic, Slightly out of character george but only occasionally when he’s feelin extra fae, WAIT THATS A TAG ALREADY HAHAHA NO WAY, boy I really don’t know what to tag this HAHA, but kinda hot oh no, dope animals and nature and shit u know, forest handjobs, george is terrifying, glass animals - Freeform, its not really sex it’s more just like, oh yeah George is a Fae lol, once again no beta pls forgive me, once again the tags have become my place to Scream, primal handjobs, woodlands n shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28263393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenOfEve/pseuds/GenOfEve
Summary: There are many variations of the myths of fae.Some describe them as ethereal beings, silver-tongued and magical. Others say that they are spirits of chaos, unpredictable, and deadly.Both are correct.Dream’s a photographer for a nature blog he runs with his friend, Sapnap. All he wanted to do was photograph the birds in the woods behind the cabin.————Based loosely on the lyrics of the album, ZABA, by Glass Animals.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 1035
Kudos: 1361
Collections: lewi's fav





	1. flip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here’s to the one with the smoking stare  
> runnin through my head with a bolo knife  
> choppin up the threads made up from looms  
> of love and blood and hate and some empty tunes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the first chapter of my new work!!! it’s all gonna be based off the track list of the album ZABA, by Glass Animals, which is of my favourite albums of the past few years!!!!  
> it’s got a lot of very jungle-y, wet sounding themes throughout it’s songs, and i HIGHLY recommend listening to the album. it’s so different to some of their newer stuff (which is still good of course!) and it’s just ugh beautiful
> 
> anyway, please enjoy!!!

Deep in the woods, just off to the side of a long-forgotten hiking trail situated behind an old cabin, a hummingbird hovers by a trumpet-vine, peering curiously at each of the rosy-coloured, bell shaped flowers.

It selects one, and darts forward, peaking it’s slender bill in toward the centre of nectar.

A camera shutter clicks rapidly. 

Dream smiles at the small bird from his crouched position, and glances down at his camera display. His smile grows into a wide grin when he examines the photos, the stark contrast of hummingbirds ruby-red throat paired with the deep emerald colourations of leaves of the trumpet-vine and the surrounding foliage a sight to behold. 

He looks up, just in time to see the hummingbird flit away, disappearing into the trees.

_“Man,”_ he breathes, “This is _easily_ the best work holiday ever.”

The humidity of the air leaves a thin sheen of sweat on Dream’s upper lip, while a gentle breeze chases away the lingering heat from the late afternoon sun, which filters softly through the canopy of the trees above him, illuminating the moss covered rocks, and various fungi that sprouts from unlikely places.

Somewhere not too far off, he can hear the trickling of a stream, the babbling of the water as it rolls over clusters of stones and branches.

As he stands up from his crouched position, he fiddles with the settings of his camera, and idly wonders if Sapnap’s progressed with the writing for the next article back at the cabin, or if he’s still slowly going insane from the erratic behaviour of the internet signal. 

_“Dream, you don’t get it,” He’d shaken his head, hands thrown up above his head in exasperation, “It’s like, the second the sun starts to set, the signal just like,_ **_drains_** _, man. Something’s_ **_weird_ ** _about it, I’m_ **_telling_ ** _you.”_

_Dream calls him superstitious._

_Sapnap lovingly tells him that he hopes Dream gets eaten by a bear while he’s on the trail._

Jokes on him though, Dream’s not on the trail. The best photos _never_ happen on the trail.

A branch breaks nearby as he recalls the conversation, and Dream pretends the timing of it doesn’t make him jump, as the shock causes him to fumble with his camera.

The camera thumps against his chest, the leather strap connected to it salvaging what would have been a very expensive disaster.

He swallows, takes a few deep breaths. 

Tries not to think about bears.

_He’s thinking about bears._

Years of doing nature photography for the blog that he and Sapnap run, of _actually photographing bears,_ and he still freaks out at every little noise.

_To be fair,_ he thinks as he adjusts his strap, _nature is kinda terrifying._

Another branch snaps, closer now, and Dream’s eyes dart around frantically, and he doesn’t bother to pretend he didn’t jump this time.

He turns quickly, this way and that, searching for the source of the noise.

But the sound bounces underneath the canopy of green, echoing off every rock and every tree, until Dream finds himself growing dizzy with his frantic spinning.

He thinks it might be time to go back.

He doesn’t bother to return the camera to his pack. He simply turns back, back toward the direction he knows the trail is in, and walks with the sun behind his shoulders, gripping the straps of his backpack out of something that is _definitely not fear, thank you very much_.

_Okay, maybe just a little bit of fear._

It’s after a long period of walking, leaves crunching under his feet, as the sun begins to dim to vibrant orange, that Dream stops. Frowns.

He should have reached the trail long ago by now. 

He was _right_ next to it, only a fifteen minute walk _easily_.

He blinks at the orange sun directly in front of him, as it strains through the leaves and branches, glares into his eyes, and his frown deepens.

_When had he started walking **west?** _

He turns around defiantly, counts his steps, focusing on anything except his thoughts, ensuring he doesn’t slip on the damp leaf litter.

When he looks up, the sun is in his eyes again.

He stares at it a moment, ignoring the strain it causes.

Something moves behind him, quiet and gentle, barely disturbing the leaves on the ground, barely rustling the surrounding branches.

As he turns slowly, carefully, the camera gripped firmly against his racing heart like a makeshift source of protection, he sees it. 

Sees _him._

There isn’t meant to be anyone out here, except for him and Sapnap. It’s a private property.

But a fair-skinned, dark haired boy peeks out at him from behind the trunk of a cypress tree. _Watching._

His clothes are somewhat ratty, a dark t-shirt faded with age and jeans too distressed to be for style purposes, and his feet are bare.

At first, Dream thinks he may be lost, too.

Or at least, maybe some kind of hippie.

”Hello,” He greets him cautiously, “I think I might be lost—?”

The boy tilts his head, and the sly, predatory movement of it makes Dream pause in confusion.

And then he _flickers_.

His whole body shifts, out of focus and Dream blinks.

The boy is gone.

_No, not gone,_ Dream thinks suddenly, frantically, panicked, _definitely not gone, holy shit._

There’s a fucking _blade pressed against his throat._

Dream thinks he would have preferred a bear.

As Dream stares at the hand gripping the handle of the knife, trying not to move, or even _swallow_ , he becomes aware that the boy’s skin isn’t just fair, he’s _shimmering, glowing, glistening_ with the shifting angles.

It’s like he’s made of moonlight. 

The long blade of the knife rests against Dream’s Adam’s apple, and he carefully flicks his gaze to the face of its owner.

A smoking gaze stares back at him. 

The longer Dream stares into it, the colder he feels, an unsettling pit of _nothing_ creeping into his bones. The feeling spreads, and Dream realises with a start that he can’t feel the ground underneath his feet anymore.

He can’t see the trees anymore either. It’s like he’s fading away, sucked into the void of those black eyes.

Dream tears his eyes away, and the woodlands reappear as his vision spins, the dirt beneath his feet a welcome familiarity.

“You’re not from here,” the boy says, interrupting Dream’s chorusing thoughts of _what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck_ and Dream blinks at the accent that shape his words.

“You’re not from here, either,” he says without thinking, before he scrunches up his face with distaste at his own sheer _idiocy._

_Oh sure, sass the dude with the big fucking knife against your jugular, good one, Dream._

He can feel the boy’s surprise at his disrespect, when the knife shifts a centimetre or two backward, as though he’s leaning back to look at him.

There’s a long second of silence. 

And then the boy _laughs_.

Not an awkward chuckle, or uncertain giggle, no, an honest to god, shrill _laugh_. 

He tugs the knife away to laugh _harder_ , like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, lowers his hand, the wide blade of the knife pointed to the ground.

Dream has never been so confused, or so _scared_ , in his damn _life._

_““You’re not from here, either,””_ the boy quotes mockingly, grinning at him, “Wow. I think I like you.”

“Uh,” Dream has no idea if that’s a good thing, “Thank you?”

The boy sits, suddenly, knife discarded to the leaves, grins up at Dream and _holy shit—_

His teeth look _sharp._

Dream swallows, and the boy pats the ground in front of him as he crosses his legs, indicating for him to join him, sit down with him.

“Sit,” he demands excitedly, “It’s been so _long_ since I’ve seen a _decent_ human.”

In his excitement, his looks less predatory, less animalistic, but the way he says _‘human’_ is unsettling, and as Dream cautiously sits, deciding it’s probably best to obey this— this _thing_ , he asks—

“Do you have a name?”

“I have multiple,” the thing says, “But, I guess George works as well as any of the others.”

“You don’t seem like a George,” Dream scrambles, suddenly flustered, “You seem so— so _ethereal.”_

He settles on flattery, hoping it will settle the chaos of the creature.

“Was that actually a _compliment?_ ” The thing— _George—_ offers him an almost soft, razor smile as the highs of his cheekbones go pink with a flush, “George was actually my _original_ name. I haven’t used it in such a long time…”

As he looks skywards, Dream thinks that if it weren’t for the teeth, his expression would look gentle.

George‘s expression hardens into something primal once more, and his eyes return to rest on Dream, before he inclines his head toward him in a questioning manner.

He wants his name.

“Oh, uh,” Dream shifts under this gaze, “Dream. I’m Dream.”

The smile slips from George’s face as he stares at him, pondering a moment, and then—

_“_ You’d question my own name, and then _lie to me_ _?_ ”

George scowls, and his hand twitches, faster than the wings of the earlier hummingbird, toward the handle of the knife once more and Dream _panics, rambles, stutters,_ **_realises—_ **

“No, uh— No, I guess— I guess I’m not, but— I— It’s not my real name, but I— It’s what I go by and,” the words are fumbled like the camera earlier, and eventually, he finds his grip, “I meant no offence by not telling you. I just— I don’t really use that name.”

Similar to a house-cat, George blinks slowly as he considers Dream’s words. His hand doesn’t drift away from the knife, hovers mere inches over the handle, unwavering.

“Will you tell me your original name, anyway?”

Dream hesitates. Something about the way George is so curious about it, the way he says ‘ _original’_ like it’s important, unsettles him. He considers giving him a false name, until he remembers the twitch toward the knife, the primal rage at the reveal of ‘Dream’.

_George can tell if he’s lying,_ and a shudder crawls up his spine at the thought.

“I don’t… I don’t think I should,” He murmurs eventually, “I’m not sure what you want it for.”

Another peal of laughter pierces the air, bubbling from George’s mouth from behind rows of dangerous teeth, and it’s with a start, that Dream realises that the woods have grown silent.

There is no sound of the birds chirping, or distant frog song, no sound of the steps of animals as they drift amongst the trees.

Even the chorusing insects are quiet.

There is only George’s laughter, against the eerie silence.

_Everything is hiding._

With soft exhale, Dream accepts that he’s possibly going to die, and likely, very quickly.

_At least it won’t be to a bear, though._

It’s with that thought, that he hopes Sapnap doesn’t look for him.

The acceptance of a quick death, however, makes him curious, a false sense of bravado falling over him like the slowly setting sun, the stickiness of the humidity settling into something softer, comforting.

“Did you turn me around? Earlier, when I was walking, I mean?” He asks suddenly and George continues to giggle. 

He taps the side of his index finger against his smile gently, a universal gesture for _it’s a secret._

Dream takes it for a yes.

He wonders what else George can do, if he can twist his own sense of direction so easily.

“So, then, why do you have a knife?” Dream queries, when George’s laugh dies down to a sigh, “I wouldn’t think you’d need one, if you’re...”

He trails off.

The word ‘magic’ feels childish to use, even though it seems to fit.

So he repeats George’s gesture against his own lips, taps them gently, and George’s eyebrows raise in delight. His smile remains, as he reaches out and taps the hardwood handle, which contrasts aggressively against his moonlight skin.

“I took it,” he says with pride, “From a man who tried to kill me with it.”

“Tried?” Dream croaks.

_Jesus, how strong is this thing?_

“Well, he actually thought he _had_ killed me,” George rolls his eyes, a sneer appearing on his face, further darkening his already coal-black eyes, “Left me with it in my _neck_ , thinking I would die. So I kept it, and I waited.”

George’s sneer shifts into another gleeful smile, an almost boastful tone to his words.

“Humans _always_ come back to the scene of the crime, you know? So predictable. So I waited, waited, _waited,”_ George grins, “I waited so long I grew bloody _moss_ on my shoulders, I was _so_ still and patient. And eventually, he came back.”

“Did you kill him?” Dream asks, his stomach twisting uneasily.

He already knows the answer.

“I took his _head,”_ George claps his hands together, laughs at his achievement, “It was so _easy,_ with him _drooling_ in his sleep, like a _child!”_

He frowns suddenly, lifts a hand, slender fingers caressing the collar of his t-shirt.

“Such a shame though, what he did to me. I was so _pretty.”_

Dream tries not to flinch _— or vomit —_ when he realises what he’s touching, swallows his shock at the sight of the long, jagged, purple scar that runs along George’s throat. George continues, his tone a soft melancholy.

“It’s only fair that I returned the favour.”

Dream’s thoughts are crowded, twisted like the strangler vines that hug the tree George leans against. 

_Maybe, if he does this right, doesn’t offend him, doesn’t give him a reason to hold a grudge,_ **_maybe_** _, George will let him go._

He returns to flattery.

“You still—“ He swallows, “You still look lovely.”

George’s gaze shifts to look him in the eyes. Switches from his soft human appearance to something more focused, more in tune.

Assessing him. Considering. 

_Looking for the lie._

_And he won’t find one,_ Dream thinks faintly, _god, he’s so fucked up._

The phrase ‘flirting with danger’ comes to mind.

George smiles again, but it’s almost shy. Delicate. Just a brief quirk of the lips, with no sharp teeth, no harsh laughter. 

He turns his head away as his cheeks flush pink again, the rosy colour paired wonderfully with the flowers of the trumpet-vines, and Dream thinks that here, in this moment of shyness, there’s no trace of his primal, predatory side.

He’s simply _human_ in this moment.

“Dream,” George softly interrupts Dream’s contemplation, as he fingers the handle of the knife once more, his bottom lip resting gingerly between too-sharp teeth, “Do you like games?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really hope you liked it!!!!! it’s definitely a bit different to my last fic
> 
> i really want fae!george to sort of have two sides - one that’s more dangerous and chaotic, and one that’s more like the him we’re used to - his human side!! so hopefully I can get it to carry over
> 
> I’m not sure what my update schedule for this fic will be like, but I will try my best to update as frequently as I can <3
> 
> PS; i read, and eventually reply to, all the comments!!!!!! so if you leave some love i’ll get to it eventually, don’t worry!!
> 
> i adore you all x


	2. black mambo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> snake eyed  
> with a sly smile  
> he can hold you  
> and shake you dry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> based off the second track!!! the opening to this song is this sort of eerie, creepy tune, yet still beautiful and sort of natural in theme!!! the lyrics reference a gamble between two animals, a risky sort of game, and I hope the atmosphere carries over!!
> 
> enjoy!!

_“Do you like games?”_

Dream blinks at the light, almost teasing lilt, to George’s words. 

_He doesn’t think he means Minecraft._

“What kind of games?” He asks, wary. George smiles at him, no teeth, just a soft, pink mouth quirked up at the corners, and Dream tries not to stare.

It’d be easier if George wasn’t so _uncomfortably_ pretty.

As he fails his goal, and stares at the flush of pink that remains lingering from his earlier compliment, stares at the expanse of milky, glittered skin and silver veins underlie it, at the abyss of George’s gaze, and his wind-tousled hair, Dream wonders if it’s possible to be _too_ pretty.

“How do you feel about a little wager?”

Dream doesn’t think he likes the idea of gambling with George. 

_But he’s far too afraid to tell him no._

“What would be playing for?” He asks, careful, cautious as he fidgets with the strap of his camera, trying to distract his nerves, keep his shaking hands busy.

He hears George hum, as his trembling hands are suddenly covered, George’s moonlight skin resting atop the tan of his own.

The warmth of it shocks him, and he looks up, looks into George’s eyes, meets his hypnotic stare.

  
The sun behind him has sunken further at some point. In several spots, the warm colour of it breaches the thick layers of the tree branches, of the emerald leaves and multiple colours of blooming, blossoming flora.

A beam of light shines directly into George’s eyes now, his eyelashes lowered just the slightest to take the strain, as it illuminates the gaze that Dream had once thought was an icy black.

 _No, not black,_ he muses.

George’s eyes are _brown,_ deep and dark like the trunks of the surrounding trees, soft and rich like the fertile soil beneath them. They could appear warm, and soft, if it weren’t for the unusual shape of their centre.

His pupils are thinned into a dangerous, vertical slit, cold and reptilian in appearance, barely noticeable against the darkness of his iris.

“An _experience,”_ George says, finally, snapping Dream out of the trance he’d found himself in, “If you win, I’ll give you an experience that most humans could only _dream_ of. _The dance of a lifetime._ I’ll even let you _live.”_

“And if you win?” Dream queries, the warmth of George’s hands upon his own leaving him feeling dizzy, distracted, focused only upon the odd vibrating sensation that seems to be emanating from his palms.

“If _I_ win,” George’s shark-like grin is back, “If _I_ win, I get _you.”_

Dream’s mind is racing. He flits from one thought to another, never resting, never settled, _like a hummingbird checking each flower, like an insect examining the perfect place to land._ His nerves are on _fire_ , a delicious mix of fear and intrigue lacing his thoughts as he begs himself to stop, _to think_.

This mischievous, lithe being, although smaller than him, although more slender and delicate in appearance, could _kill him with ease._

Dream doesn’t even think he’d need his ‘borrowed’ knife. 

He’d just have to get those dangerous tear near his throat and shake him, like predator with pray, just sink in and _shake—_

“So what’ll it be? What shall we play, Dream?”

His voice cuts through Dream’s thoughts again, certain and smooth. 

_He already knew he’d agree._

Already knew that Dream had the perfect game for them, tucked away in the depths of his backpack, underneath a water bottle and protein bar, underneath the bag that usually holds his camera, which still hangs precariously from his neck.

As Dream slowly tugs his hands free from George’s clasp, reaching back to slip his pack from his shoulders, he becomes faintly aware that the sounds of the forest are beginning to return.

Quiet chirps of cicadas, the soft whistle of a bird to another, and somewhere, even the grunt of a deer makes its presence known.

The animals aren’t hiding anymore.

_Why would they be?_

_They’re no longer the ones in danger._

Now, they watch, tittering amongst themselves, placing bets on what’ll be the outcome of the game of choice, a game decided by it’s human participant.

Dream re-packs his camera, and then carefully tugs out a velvet bag from the depths of his pack. He places it carefully into George’s outstretched, waiting palm, careful not to touch the warmth of his iridescent skin once more, lest he falls into another distracting, spiralling trance.

The breathy sound that escapes George’s mouth as he peers into the bag, can only be described as delight.

He tips the contents of the bag, a set of thin, wooden dominos, into his hands, and begins to shuffle them, faster than Dream can even comprehend, the milky shade of his skin a soft blur against the background of the forest behind him.

The dominos are dealt. 

_The game begins._

Dream finds himself lucky enough to go first, a double-six domino present in his hand, and exhales a nervous breath as he places the smooth wooden tile, horizontal on the forest floor.

George twitches his toes to the song of the surrounding woods, to the animals that argue their bets amongst themselves, to the urgent babble of the nearby brook.

The sun continues to sink lower, as he places his tile.

_The game continues._

About halfway through, Dream loses his focus.

It’s hard not to, when a snake glides over the hiking boot on in his outstretched foot, a criss-cross pattern of bars stretched over it’s length, various shades muted shades of brown painting its scales.

He flinches at the appearance of it, of the frightening sensation of it passing over the small area where his pants have bunched up, leaving his leg exposed, before he frowns, staring at the oddly familiar bars along its back, forgetting his next move as he fixates into the pattern, trying to remember—

“What’s taking you so long?” George grins at him over a hand of dominoes, as he taps one against his nose, “Trying to _cheat?”_

The snake manoeuvres itself from across Dream’s leg, gently sliding along the leaf litter before it coils around George’s ankle.

George’s accent echoes in his brain.

_It clicks._

“No,” Dream says suddenly, “I’m not, but _you_ are.”

“I’m _what?”_ George asks, a bored sigh and a roll of his eyes punctuating his words.

“Trying to cheat,” Dream smiles at the coiled snake, “That’s a European viper. They’re not from here. I’ve photographed them before though, once when I visited _the_ _United Kingdom_ _._ So, I’m guessing it’s not real, but it’s very distracting, I’ll give you that.”

Dream taps one of his own dominos against his nose, mimicking George’s movements, as the snake uncoils, and slips into the nearby shrubbery.

George grins at him, all teeth and sharp angles.

“Smart,” he says, adjusting the dominos in his hand, “But you did get one thing wrong.”

Dream plays his turn, a double-one, and glances up into George’s own snake eyes, as he says—

“They’re _very_ real to the mind.”

Dream tries not to think about what that means, or the unsettling feeling in his stomach.

_The game continues._

They play on, one domino after another, smooth and simple, each move carefully thought out as the sun descends further and further behind them.

They play on.

_Until—_

Dream swallows, as he gazes down at the final domino in his hand.

He can’t play it. There’s no spot for it.

_Oh no._

With a shaking hand, he reaches out, and taps on the forest floor, indicating his inability to play. 

George’s eyes flick from his shaking hand, to his own final domino, and he licks his lips, and he smiles, and Dream squeezes his eyes shut tight as the fear overtakes him and—

“I can’t play, either.”

He winks one eye open.

And then the other.

Stares at the lone domino that George holds in front of his face, pinched between his slender fingers.

Eight dots stare back at him, and he frowns, counts them again.

_Eight dots._

He counts them again.

_Still eight dots._

He lifts up his own domino, holds it next to George’s.

_Seven dots._

He has less.

“You win.”

He’s won.

_He’s actually fucking won._

George is laughing at the stunned expression on his face, grinning despite his loss, and a split second of confusion teases at Dream’s relief, because _why is he so pleased?_

_He lost, so why—_

George tugs the dominos from him, fingers grazing against his own, a burst of energy passing along the touch, distracting him from his curious thoughts.

He drops the dominos back into the velvet drawstring bag with the others, lets it tumble to the earth as he releases it, leans forward, and presses his palms against either side of Dream’s face, cupping his cheeks and laughing still, and Dream stares into those dark snake-eyes of his, _lost._

The energy from George’s palms sings against his skin, sending something that feels like liquid gold into his bloodstream, _something warm and delectable,_ as George leans in and brushes his nose shyly against Dream’s, eyes still open wide as he grins.

Dream closes his eyes as he does so, relishing in the sensation, the fear of _danger, risk, predator,_ only increasing his pulse, increasing the speed at which the sensation spreads through his veins.

“Are you ready?” George asks, pulling his face away, but still maintaining his gentle hold.

Dream can hardly think through the sound of his own pulse, through the burning touch of George’s hands.

_If he says yes,_ he ponders weakly, _he might die. What if he isn’t ready, and by agreeing, he lies?_

_But what if by saying no, he offends him, and in doing so, he also dies?_

They sit like this, bathed in an orange glow, with only a couple of hours of daylight left between them, as Dream hesitates.

Dream hesitates, and he thinks about shark teeth behind soft, rosy mouths, of electric palms with glowing skin.

Dream hesitates, and he says—

_“Please.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, sorry this update took longer than expected!!! I have been EXHAUSTED like honestly who gave the holiday season THE RIGHT
> 
> i really really hope that you guys enjoyed this though! and I hope you’re having a lovely December!!!
> 
> Remember: if you comment, I’ll almost always reply eventually!!!! I adore your comments so much <33
> 
> ps: if you need a more instant response, or have a question about something, my tumblr is also GenOfEve!! I get notifications for that one, so I’m more likely to reply straight away!!


	3. pools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> put the flowers in your hair  
> wrap your tendrils round my chest  
> i smile because i want to  
> i am your boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> track 3 of zaba is ‘pools’ and it is my FAVOURITE track of all time!!! this is up there with one of my favourite glass animals songs, and my favourite songs in general, which is why it was lucky enough to help name the title of this fic.
> 
> pools has this deep otherworldly feeling to it, it’s this kind of track that really pulls you in and begs your whole attention, and the lyrics of it are just - wow.  
> it tells this absolutely insane story, and it also has one of the coolest video clips I’ve ever seen - it’s claymation and it’s BEAUTIFUL. go watch it!!!!!!!
> 
> i hope I can give off the same vibes with this chapter <3
> 
> ps; there is a very very brief mention of accused drug use at the end of this chapter, but that’s about it rly!!

_“Please.”_

The deep orange sunset is now shot through with purples, a smoky haze of blues and greys tinting the clouds that sit high above them.

The sun will be set, soon.

If Dream doesn’t leave before then, he won’t be able to see. 

_Won’t be able to find his way out._

He can feel George’s gaze on him as he leads him deeper into the forest, watching him, assessing him. Dream pauses in his pondering of the sun, and offers him a smile.

He wouldn’t want George to think he was ungrateful, for whatever he was about to give him, wouldn’t want him to be displeased, upset or angry.

So he offers him a smile, and resists the urge to flinch when George offers a harsh smile back, all sharp teeth and crooked fangs, and grabs his hand suddenly, tugs him hard toward a nearby clearing.

The creek that Dream has been able to faintly hear for so long, comes into vision next to it.

There’s only a few inches of water in it as it flows steadily onward, and Dream wonders if perhaps somewhere it connects to the river he’d seen documented on his map. 

He stumbles on the rocks, pillowed with moss, on the slippery, damp ground, his pack thumping unsteadily. against his back, and George steadies him with a laugh.

George does not stumble.

He _glides,_ so elegant and perfect along the unstable terrain, not a step out of place, and Dream can’t help the embarrassment of feeling so inferior, _so human,_ when he stands next to him.

George moves away, stands a couple feet in front of him and he takes his stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, and his shoulders squared as he indicates for Dream to copy him.

_The dance of a lifetime._

Dream just hopes he can keep his footing.

“It’s tradition that we would offer one another a gift,” George says thoughtfully, as Dream copies his stance carefully, “But I guess this isn’t a very traditional setting, anyway.”

Dream can pick out the disappointment that laces his humorous excuses, _the almost sad tones that linger in his broken expectations,_ and he hesitates, eyes drifting to a young dogwood tree, in bloom almost a foot above their heads.

The sadness in George’s facial features _overwhelms_ him.

Carefully, he selects a flower, one that is ready to fall naturally, and plucks it from the tree, before tucking it gently behind George’s ear.

It’s aged appearance seems to disappear, the second it is nestled amongst George’s hair.

The deep pink colour of the dogwood’s bracts, of the false petals that surround the tiny yellow flowers within, pairs wonderfully with the bloom that spreads across his cheeks, and the delicate rosy colour of his mouth.

Dream clears his throat, and gestures with a nod toward the flower.

“A gift,” he says, nervously, awkwardly, afraid, “For the dance.”

“A man of many tricks,” George smiles at him, soft and gentle, repeating the gesture and tucking a flower behind Dream’s own ear, “I like that.”

There is no trace of the sadness now, and briefly, Dream wonders if it was some sort of test, a ruse, _a trick._

As George adjusts the flower, cheeks still deliciously pink, Dream tries not to think about the things he’d do for that gentle smile.

George takes a step back, and reaches forward, clasping Dream’s hands in his own.

“Everyone’s waiting,” he says, that sharp smile returning, “We should probably begin.”

_Everyone?_

Dream feels his spine prickle at the watchful gaze of _something,_ but as he turns his head toward the thick foliage the sensation seems to emanate from, George reaches up, and, gripping his chin lightly, turns his gaze back toward him.

“Don’t _look,_ you’ll _scare_ them,” he scolds, “They’re _shy._ You’ll see them soon enough, I _promise.”_

The soft smile is back when he releases Dream’s jaw, and returns to gently clasping at his hands.

He tips his head forward in a bow, and Dream mimics him carefully, feeling the flower behind his ear rustle with the breeze.

_The dance begins._

Dream pays close attention to George’s fluid movements, copying them to the best of his ability, trying not to be distracted by the raw electricity that seems to be humming from George’s fingertips, or the fine mist of glitter that has begun to linger in the air like dew-drops.

They step toward each other, chest to chest, before stepping backwards again, repeating the steps before George lifts his arm, and Dream finds himself being twirled as he manoeuvres under the arm, before being twirled backward into his original position.

With each step, the woods seem to get louder, birds and cicadas crying out, while frogs and toads croak in unison, until they have become an endless cacophony of sounds, a chorus of cries and chirps _deafening_ him as George spins Dream one more and he, _he—_

_He lets him go._

Dream gasps as he spins, and the world around him begins to _melt._

The pattern of the bark on the dogwood tree seems to crawl and drift, it’s branches inhaling and exhaling in time with the large glowing trunk of a nearby conifer tree, the strangler fig around it expanding and sliding with the noise of the forest.

The dogwood flowers colours are slowly changing, fading into an impossible bright, cyan blue with each inhale of the branches, returning to their vibrant pink on the exhale, their false petals opening and closing in time of the drums— _the drums—_

_Oh god. He can hear drums._

The flowers wink at him. The forest is _alive._

A hand catches his free one suddenly, it’s leathery texture stealing his attention, and he glances back at it, his eyes widening at the scaled texture, _at the raised bumps and lumps, at the dark, almost-black, mossy colouring, at the claws._

He looks up at his new partner.

An alligator snarls at him, a clicking, growling sort of hiss, blinks it’s yellowed eyes, and he _screams,_ and he is being spun again, twirled away into the hands of—

_George._

George laughs at him, raw excitement colouring his boyish face. 

“Can you see them?” He asks, glee soaking his words, _“They must like you!”_

George spins him again, and as his hand slips away, Dream realises that his face is different.

His teeth are straight, and his eyes no longer have their serpentine appearance. His pupils are blown wide.

_Human._

Dream is still spinning, when suddenly, there’s a hand on his pack, pushing hard against him, _shoving,_ and he _slips._

He slips, toward the creek, and he braces himself for the pain, for the possible broken bones that will occur when he breaches the mere inches of water, when he collides with the smooth stones, and broken branches.

The surface of the water breaks.

_His bones do not._

His eyes fly open at the shock of the freezing water.

With the blurriness of his vision, he can just make out the messy whirls of mangrove roots, along with tangles of stringy, tape grass, and, growing further along the river floor, the tiny rounded traps and thin, green offshoots of the carnivorous bladderwort plant.

As a dark mass shifts some feet in front of him, he wonders if perhaps George left him to his fate, let him drift downstream with his alligator partner, or if perhaps he’s dead or dying, and this is all some vivid hallucination, brought on by exposure.

His lungs are burning. 

The dark mass is closer now, and Dream can make out the shape of the alligator.

_He wishes George had killed him first._

Something tugs him from the water, _hard,_ and he inhales, coughs and splutters at the presence of water in his lungs, stumbles blindly in the darkness of the forest, as somebody gently brushes a kiss to his knuckles.

_The darkness of the forest._

_God._

_How long have they been dancing?_

His eyes adjust to the darkness, and he can just make out the glowing skin of George as he shakes the flower from his hair, laughing and smiling at him, oh-so gentle, as he prepares to spin Dream once more.

Dream’s stomach dips in fear.

“No,” he begs as he chokes on river water, the dizzying confusion and the melting forest all too much for his fragile mind, “No, no, _no—!”_

He is spun again.

A faun’s hooves gently scrabble at his hands, it’s soft brown eyes reminiscent of George’s almost human gaze throughout the dance.

He is spun again, and he stumbles, queasy, stomach spinning along with him, twirling faster and faster.

_Until—_

The silky paws of a great cat rasp at his hands. Her sharp stare greets him, and he yells in fear, in _pain,_ as she suddenly pushes at his chest, _pushes him backward,_ her long claws shredding the thin, wet material of his t-shirt.

He runs.

He twists his ankle on the damp leaf litter.

He slips. 

He falls.

_The drums stop._

  
  


He comes to, spitting dirt and leaves from his mouth, gagging at the taste of earth and rot, and he vomits, expunging himself of the river water he had swallowed.

He heaves, taking gasping breaths of air as he glances around, desperately, frantically, trying to figure out— _Who? What? When? Where?_

His pack is next to him, bone dry in comparison to his own soaked skin.

He can’t remember his own name.

The afternoon sun lights his way.

He’s on the edge of the tree line. He can see a cabin from here, and he shakingly pushes himself upward, hissing at the sharp, tearing pain that pulses outward from his chest.

His muscles ache.

From behind him, the forest sings. It _begs_ him to come back.

On a throbbing ankle, he decidedly stumbles away from the call of the woods, down the grassy hill, and toward the cabin.

Somebody sees him through the window. 

The door is flung open as he _collapses_ , and this somebody swears at him, yells at him, scolds him, the sour tang of fear and anger a foundation for his words as he struggles to hold him upright, lug his deadweight form toward the couch.

He can hardly hear him. He wonders if he’s still in the river.

The world floods back to him suddenly, when a harsh, chemical pain floods along his chest, burning hot and angry. As he shouts in pain, jolts upright, he realises that at some point, this somebody has cut his shirt open, fetched a first aid kit, and has begun applying antiseptic to the wounds he bears.

“— quit moving, man! Are you _listening to me, Dream?”_

His name is _Dream_.

This somebody is _Sapnap._

_Oh god. **How did he forget?**_

Dream turns his gaze toward him, finally paying attention to his friend's presence as he behaves, and doesn’t twist away from the burning chemicals.

“Did you actually get attacked by a fucking _bear,_ dude? What _is_ this?”

“Alligator,” Dream murmurs, trying desperately to remain conscious, to not slip away once more, “No, wait— Mountain lion.”

He hesitates, shivering at the damp feeling of his clothes.

_“Both,”_ he decides.

“What the fuck do you _mean, **both?”**_ Sapnap’s voice is distance again as he smears some kind ointment over the claw marks, “We’re too far north for mountain lions, man, there’s no _way—”_

“I _saw it—”_

_“They’re **very** real to the mind.” _

George’s unusual statement echoes in his mind, and Dream flinches. 

Sapnap stares at the long marks on Dream’s chest, as he pulls the skin together with the adhesive on the butterfly stitches.

Dream knows he’s thinking about the article they did on big cats just a year ago, when they’d documented the different claw marks different cats had left on trees as they’d climbed, hunted, prowled, _pushed—_

“Okay, Dream,” Sapnap murmurs, and it’s the closest thing to an ‘ _I believe you’_ that Dream will get, because he _knows_ how insane it is, “But, are you _sure_ you didn’t like, eat some kind of— I don’t know— _mushrooms,_ or some shit, or like—“

“Why the _hell_ would I—“

“I’m just asking, man,” Sapnap holds up his hands, on the defence, “You’re sweating like fucking crazy, and your eyes— they don’t look right.”

He sighs, returns to tugging the wounds on Dream’s chest closed.

“These are pretty gross, and you’ll have to make sure they don’t get infected, but you’re probably just lucky they aren’t any deeper,” he murmurs, “We’re a long drive from town, so I probably would have had to bust out my street knowledge of stitches.”

Dream winces at the idea of Sapnap wielding a needle and thread, and his friend chuckles at his expression.

“Yeah, I know right?” Sapnap shakes his head as he stands up, “I don’t know how the hell you managed to get yourself in this much trouble in such a short amount of time.”

Dream frowns at that. 

_Hasn’t he been gone since yesterday?_

He’d danced for _so long..._

“What do you mean?”

“You only left a few hours ago,” Sapnap muses from the nearby kitchen, “Sun’s only just starting to set. Hope you got some cool photos at least.”

Dream glances out the window behind his friend's head, at the treeline that calls to him, at the familiar setting orange sun above the woods, and winces as Sapnap applies a bag of frozen peas to his twisted ankle.

“Sap,” he whispers weakly, “Is the internet still messing up?”

“Huh? Oh, that,” Sapnap snorts, adjusting the placement of the makeshift ice-pack, “Of _course_ that’s what you’re worried about. It usually starts up around this time, yeah. I’ll show you, and you can see for yourself. I _swear,_ it’s like it’s being _drained_ by something.”

Something soft and pale, almost like moonlight, glimmers outside the window, by the edge of the forest.

“Yeah,” Dream slurs, giving in to the exhaustion, “I believe you.”

He smiles as he drifts away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so FUN to write holy shit I had it planned out in my head for WEEKS You have no idea!!!
> 
> i’m so glad to have it all out now!!! and I really hope you all enjoyed it!!!
> 
> I look forward to your lovely comments and messages as always!!! <3


	4. gooey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hold my hand and float back to the summer time  
> tangled in the willows, now our tongues are tied  
> how can i believe you, how can i be nice?  
> tripping round tree stumps in your summer smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> track four is GOOEY!! this is one of the more well known songs off of zaba, and coins the term ‘peanut butter vibes’ oh so well
> 
> it’s a, for lack of a better term, very wet sounding song, very, well, gooey!!!
> 
> as per usual i have no beta so please forgive me for any spelling or grammatical errors lmao i swear one day i’ll fix these silly little fics of mine up properly ugh

When Dream wakes up on the couch the following morning, shoeless and bandaged, _thank god for Sapnap_ , it feels like he’s pushing through syrup.

The air feels thick and heavy when he tries to sit up, and each movement is an effort to maneuver through the honey soaked air. 

He struggles with his thoughts, as he limps to the bathroom, the decision to brush his teeth almost impossible to reach, despite the obvious foul taste in his mouth.

His thoughts push through their own sugary goo, as he stares blankly at his toothbrush on the basin, at the vibrant shade of lime green painting it’s accents.

It clicks, after a minute of painful, strained attempts to _just think, dammit, what’s wrong with you,_ and he sighs in relief as he reaches out to apply toothpaste to the worn down bristles of the brush.

As he gradually tugs the toothbrush through the gooey air, muscles aching, he glances up at the mirror above the sink.

The toothbrush falls from his hand with a clatter, and he yelps in a combination of surprise and pain as he leaps back, the motion tugging at the strips that hold his chest together, like the glue that pieced together his favourite coffee mug, or the tape wrapped around one arm of Sapnap’s well-loved reading glasses.

As he stumbles on the landing, jarring his already aching ankle, he thinks he feels well-loved himself, as a pair of eyes, one a familiar olive, and one _serpentine,_ stare at him from the mirror.

His eyes.

_“—your eyes—they don’t look right—“_

Sapnap’s concerns echo in his head as he carefully leans forward, examining.

No, not quite serpentine.

The pupil of the eye in question seems to ebb and flow, morphing in shape, stretching from round, to thin, altering between his own human eyes, and eyes that look like—

_George’s_.

He blinks. Shakes his head.

Normality resumes. 

Two green eyes stare at him. He heaves a shaky sigh. Returns to brushing his teeth with syrupy, slow and heavy movements.

He gradually works up the effort to wipe over the filthy, grime and mud that cakes his skin, run a damp, soapy rag over his extremities, avoiding his many scrapes and bandages.

He stares at the way the colour of his bruises seem to _pulse,_ flickering between deep purple clouds, blue pools, green moss, and back again.

He splashes water on his face.

Normality resumes once more. He limps back to the couch. 

Sleeps for almost another full 24 hours. 

His body needs it. His mind needs it more.

He’s roused by Sapnap shaking a bottle of something blue in his face, an electrolyte sports drink, which he accepts weakly, as well as what he assumes are two chalky painkillers. 

The syrupy, cloudy feeling is gone. 

He almost misses it, as Sapnap begs him for the whole story, now that Dream’s coherent and conscious again. He doubts Sapnap would believe him. He tells him so.

Sapnap hesitates. He disappears out of his vision, ducking into the study, Dream guesses from the direction of his footsteps, and returns, holding Dream’s camera.

“I think I might,” Sapnap murmurs, holding the camera out, angled for Dream to see the display screen, “Dream… _What are these?”_

Dream’s first motion is to be insulted. He was _proud_ of those photos of the hummingbird, and some earlier ones of butterflies and other insects.

But then he looks. _Really_ looks, as Sapnap slowly flicks through the images, one by one.

The first few photos are shaky shots of the foliage, the blurry focus of an amateur photographer, nothing like Dream’s practiced stills.

The next photo is of a faun. It bends it’s neck to drink from the few inches of water in the creek, the few inches that Dream had stood next to when—

_—hooves gently scrabble at his hands, it’s soft brown eyes reminiscent of George’s almost human gaze—_

The faun stares at the camera, unafraid. It is completely aware of the cameraman, yet it remains steady in it’s drinking.

The camera beeps as Sapnap pushes a button.

Dream is staring at his own back. He’s missing his backpack.

He stands in the hip-deep water of a river. A river so familiar, and yet, different.

_—he can just make out the messy whirls of mangrove roots—_

Where the water was crystal clear, here is a murky, sand-bottom river, it’s waters a soft, pale brown. Despite the murkiness, Dream has no doubts that he would find tape grass, and bladderwort lining the bottom of it.

_Beep._

The next photo is of him again. His back is still to the camera, but the shot is zoomed in, and right in front of him, is the dark, mossy coloured body of an alligator, it’s snout hovering above the water as it idles, examining him carefully.

— _a clicking, growling sort of hiss, blinks it’s yellowed eyes, and he screams—_

_Beep._

In the last photo, the cameraman is revealed.

The top half of George’s head is in the forefront of the shot, his skin glistening from the flash as he looks over his shoulder, at a large, shadowed mass of graceful muscle, resting in the bough of a low branch.

The mountain lion stares at him through the lens. His chest _burns._

_—The silky paws of a great cat rasp at his hands. Her sharp stare greets him, and he yells in fear, in pain, as she suddenly pushes at his chest—_

Dream takes the camera in his trembling hands, and flicks through each picture again.

Each photo is littered with orbs, scattered around the shapes of the animals, or of his own human body. Paired with them is a soft, smoky mist. It appears to almost be made of light.

“Dream, these photos,” Sapnap points at the text in the corner, “They’re all taken _after_ you got home. Four in the morning, _two days later._ Dream, what did you _see? What happened to you?”_

_Dream tells him._

He tells him how the animals stood on their hind legs and _danced with him,_ how he fell into the creek, only for it to be a river, tells him of the trees _breathing_ as they watched him.

Sapnap just listens. 

Listens to the rambling of his friend, gone mad, with no judgement.

He’s good like that.

“And him?” He says, finally, “Who’s he?”

He taps the display photo, where Dream has zoomed in on the top half of George’s head.

“George,” Dream whispers, “He’s not… Like us.”

“How so?”

“I don’t think he’s human. Or, he was, once maybe.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap taps the display again, taps the image of George’s eyes, illuminated by the flash, “I gathered that.”

The vertical slits stare up at them.

“Is he— Is he dangerous?” Sapnap queries, searching for the correct word.

 _“Definitely,”_ Dream hesitates, despite the certainty of his affirmation, “But— Like, not always. When he is, it’s like he’s not himself. Something more,” he hesitates once more, “Primitive. Animal. He’s good, though. He _wants_ to be good—“

There’s a sigh.

“Oh, Dream, no—“

“What?”

“You’re seriously falling in love with a character straight out of a story book,” Sapnap chuckles, rubs at the back of his head nervously, “And it’s _Where The_ fuckin’ _Wild Things Are.”_

“No— No way,” Dream shakes his head, regrets it when it feels like his mind _rattles,_ “I only knew him for—“

The time stamp glares at him.

“Two days, apparently,” he swallows, “But, still— like— give me some credit.”

He says this.

He says this, but he can’t take his eyes off George, off his abyssal gaze, off his moonlight skin.

Off the familiar pink of a dogwood flower, tucked behind George’s ear.

  
  


Sapnap is understandably pissed off when he catches Dream in the study the next day, packing a bag.

Dream bites back anyway.

“We have a whole _month,”_ Dream argues as he carefully places the camera bag into his pack, “A whole month to _work,_ so I might as well be—“

“Not _only_ are you a walking risk for literal _sepsis,_ and practically _disabled_ with that ankle, you are an _idiot.”_

Dream wants to argue against that too, opens his mouth to do so, and Sapnap bowls over him, face turning pink with irritation.

“No— no!” He gestures at Dream wildly, _“Look_ at yourself! What if that mountain lion comes back, or a _bear—“_

“So, I’ll _photograph_ it,” Dream says with a smirk at the exasperated _shriek_ Sapnap lets out, “Kinda my job.”

Sapnap’s anger twitches in his face as he fumbles at Dream’s comeback, but he continues.

“And what about _him?_ That _thing?”_

 _“George,”_ Dream stresses his name, “Only came out when the sun started going down. It’s dawn. I’ve got time.”

_He faintly hopes he’s wrong about that. Hopes he’s so, so wrong, as he misses the syrupy air that lingers in George’s presence._

He’s not getting anywhere with this. He pulls out the big guns.

“Do you remember that Nat Geo article? The one about how otters can take down alligators?” _Sapnap fucking loves this article,_ “You went on and on about it for _weeks,_ about how you wanted to do this piece, on— on—“

“...The living arrangements of otters and alligators.”

“Yes!” _He’s got him,_ “There’s meant to be otters here, and we _know_ there’s gators, so what if I got you photos of—“

Sapnap _wails._ Throws his hands up in defeat, exasperation, _loss._

“Fine!” He grumbles, slumps down in the swivel chair by the desk, opens his laptop with _force,_ “Go out and get mauled to death, but I’m _not_ bandaging you back up, _and_ I get to say I told you so.”  
  


Dream is true to his word, and he does get _some_ work done, limping along the river bank, photographing the glossy, black alligators from a safe distance

None of them have the olive sheen like the one in George’s photo, the one from his blurry, twisted memories.

He photographs young otters as they snarl, and play nearby, leaping in and out of the water, gliding over one another with grace and ferocity. The proof of otters in the same area of the gators is promising, and he absolutely plans on holding it over Sapnap’s head so he can return another time. 

He pauses, taking a sip of water.

“The forest said you’d come back—“

He _chokes, splutters, coughs._

George laughs from the branches above him, slipping down as graceful as the otters, like he weighs nothing.

“The forest said you’d come back, but I didn’t believe it…”

He gingerly reaches out, runs a finger over the areas of Dream’s chest that are swollen with bandages, and Dream leans into his humming touch, _obsessed._

“Not after this happened. I didn’t want you to get hurt,” he hums quietly, “It’s a mistake I’ll own up to, unlike others.”

“How—“ his voice shakes, “How do I know you won’t hurt me again?”

George blinks at him.

Brown eyes. Rounded pupils.

_Human._

“Because you make me want to be human.”

The corner of his lips quirk up.

No sharp edges. Soft, gentle.

_Human._

“And I can try to be human,” He continues as he leans in, the syrupy sensation pushing around them, emanating off of him in waves as he brushes his nose against Dream’s, “After all, I _am_ human. Sometimes.”

The words echo.

_“—You make me want to be human.”_

George’s lips graze his own, and the forest melts away once more as Dream inhales his exhale, inhales syrup, inhales sticky, sugary air, pushing through as he nudges himself forward, onward, craving as George gently nips at his lips, licks the non-existent wound he leaves.  
  


The words echo.

_“—I can try to be human.”_

He surges forward, swipes at George’s tongue with his own, his shaking hands clinging to his rotted t-shirt, fingers slipping through old holes and grazing at the moonlight skin beneath, gripping at a slim waist as he _shudders._

The words echo.

_“—I am human.”_

George tastes sweet, like honeycomb pried fresh from a hive, but also _earthy,_ like sap fresh from a maple tree, an underlying taste of _something_ Dream can’t place as he kisses him harder, deeper, _darker,_ relishing in the almost whimpered breaths he takes from George with each movement, each kiss, each caress, _each lick, each bite—_

The words echo.

_“Sometimes.”_

He pulls back, pulls out of the syrupy trap of the air, the sensation like _tar,_ the question _thick_ as it pushes out of him.

“You need to tell me what you mean.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one time my friends and i went camping and i was super hungover and this girl asked how i was feeling and i said “very where the fucking wild things are” and that is what inspired that line lmao
> 
> i really hope you guys are liking this story!!!! it’s so challenging to write, but i’m having fun, and i hope you all are too <3
> 
> i love you guys, stay safe, and remember: don’t make out with strange cute men in the woods


	5. walla walla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> honey honey, don’t you cry  
> it’s a ruse  
> all these creatures are a lie  
> funny bunny, it’s alright  
> i clap my hands  
> and they’re gone into the night
> 
> (take my hand, take my hand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> walla walla is number five!! and this is All Dialogue fuc
> 
> a warning; there is a brief mention of violence and some gore so be mindful!!!!!
> 
> i still have no beta (as always) and my proofreading kinda sucks bc my brain just goes brrrrr so i still miss some issues and shit sometimes sorry haha!!!
> 
> enjoy!!

“It was an accident, you know.”

The two sit side by side, underneath the shade of a familiar dogwood tree, it’s boughs of pink and green ever sovibrant above their heads.

Dream leans against the tree, letting it take the weight of his aching muscles, while George sits cross-legged next to him, picking at the discarded flowers that litter the ground. Each one he picks up regains its once-fresh appearance, as though it was never dying to begin with.

The creek trickles nearby, filling the silence between George’s words as he hesitates, thinking of how to continue, how to broach the topic of _what he is._

He tries again. Dream listens.

“I was twenty-four,” he murmurs, raising his eyebrows as a sarcastic chuckle passes his lips, “I still _am_ twenty-four. Time passes differently for me.”

Dream thinks of the time stamps on George’s photographs, _of the darkness in the melting forest as he stumbled, of the endless setting sun as Sapnap bandaged his wounds._

“You’ve figured that out already though,” George confirms, “You’re smart, of course you have.”

George smiles at him, soft and human. He continues.

“I was twenty-four, and I had a lot of friends. We weren’t all that close though, I guess. I didn’t go out often,” he chuckles again, “I was an extroverted introvert, I guess.”

He sighs, and it’s a mournful, hollow sound, nothing like the frantic giggles, or the primal displays of rapid cycling emotions Dream is used to seeing.

It’s a sad, lonely sigh, and the sound of it sinks into Dream’s bones, and leaves them cold and shaking.

He rubs at his shoulder absently, the motion tugging on his injured chest, the pain chasing away the cold with a burning heat as he waits for George to go on. He waits patiently, listening carefully to his honeyed voice.

“Anyway, we thought it would be fun to book this holiday cabin. Just a few of us. Five, including me, if I remember right.”

_Five?_

_There are four bedrooms in the cabin, five, if you count the study—_

“It’s the same cabin, stop thinking so loud,” George laughs at him, at his face pinched in thought, and Dream flushes, rubs at his neck embarrassed at being caught, but George moves on, “We had it for a week. On the second day, someone suggested we drive out to the town a ways from here, book a room, go on a pub crawl of sorts. I didn’t want to.”

He’s frowning now, and through the sluggish movement of his mind, Dream wonders if kissing him again would make him stop that.

“One of the newer guys in the group,” George’s jaw clenched firmly, “He stayed back too. Said we should just have a few day drinks, go explore the woods out the back of the property. _These woods. My woods.”_

He trails off for a moment, and stares out into the foliage, like something’s caught his attention, distracted him from his story, and his skin flushes that delicious, enticing shade of pink once more.

“He was,” he fidgets, _“Interesting._ So I said yes.”

Dream absently reminds himself that it’s stupid to be jealous of somebody that not only you’ve never met, but somebody who is clearly years in the past.

It’s stupid, yes. But he still doesn’t like not being the reason for George’s pink cheeks, the delectable flush of humiliation, or lust.

He tangles his fingers with George’s, looping them together like the roots of a mangrove tree.

The shy glance he receives makes it worthwhile.

_He wants to know how far down his chest that flush goes._

George continues.

“There was… a sort of decorative display, in the cabin,” he chews his lip as he thinks, “and it had the knife, as like an art piece.”

Dream knows what he’s talking about, he realises with a start. There’s an empty, metal display on the fireplace mantle, it’s contents long missing.

He can’t help but shudder.

“He said it was a ‘bolo knife’, and I thought it was so _stupid,”_ George rolls his eyes, scoffs, “We were on the _trail,_ there was no need to bring it, no branches to cut up or whatever. And he kept teasing me,” George’s lip curls, “About how I _jumped_ at every noise, every sound, every _bloody frog call.”_

His anger dissipates suddenly, and his eyes soften as he fidgets with a flower in his hands. The melancholy in his voice returns.

“I should have known better,” he whispers, so low that Dream strains to hear him through the thickness of the air, “I wanted to impress him, _prove I wasn’t scared,_ but I— I should have known _better.”_

The flower is shredded in his shaking, anxious hands, and Dream longs to comfort him, but he’s so terrified of this dangerous, beautiful boy, and he doesn’t know what to do.

So he listens.

He listens as George crumbles, and tells him about how he found the old, shedded skin of a python, and how he thought it would be _funny, really he did,_ when he held one end in his hand, and tossed the other end over the boy’s shoulder, trying to make him see that he _wasn’t scared of this deep, dark forest._

“I guess he was secretly more scared than I was, because he panicked, and he spun around with that knife and—“

George cuts himself of with a laugh, but it’s a watery sound as he thumbs the purple scarring that mars his delicate, shimmering skin, the thick line that aggressively runs along the front of his neck, just above his collarbone, which matches the violet shade of the clustering wildflowers, nearby in the clearing where they had once danced.

Dream can’t help his fumbling curiosity.

“If it was an accident, then why—“

He’s cut off by a sharp, _vicious_ glance, and he wishes he had remained silent when he greets those brown eyes just as they shift into a serpentine appearance, fear gripping him just as hard as George is currently, his hand crushing his own, bruising and rough as George _spits, hisses, cries—_

“It _was_ an accident, he _froze_ when he _realised,_ not even an _inch_ in my _neck,”_ George’s words are low, growling and petrifying, “No arteries, no windpipe, _nothing,_ just a cut, and he _froze,_ but he took one look at the blood and he _panicked—“_

Dream thinks he might be panicking now as George manoeuvres in front of him, hand still crushed in his grip, held between their chests as he leans in—

“He _panicked,_ and instead of _helping,_ he wanted to _save himself,_ so he fucking _pushed—“_

George’s grip grows stronger, more painful, Dream feels the joints of his knuckles shift uncomfortably under the strain as he winces as George leans in closer, closer, hands still clasped between them in a hold to match that of his mentioned python, and his growled worlds are dissolving into a garbled mess as George’s jaw _shifts_ to make room for _sharp teeth, pointed fangs,_ as he _hisses—_

_“He_ **_pushed,_ ** _and he cut_ **_everything—“_ **

The calls of the animals have grown louder and now, they’re _blasting, echoing, deafening,_ as they call out in _fear, in warning,_ as shadows of _things, of large animals that_ **_don’t belong here_ ** shift behind George.

An _orangutan_ , of all things, it’s dusky orange fur contrasting with the emerald green of the forest, has materialised in one of the trees, and stares down at them with a saddened gaze.

Dream thinks he must hallucinating, he’s so certain he must be, but he remembers the sharp claws of the mountain lion, remembers George’s coy words—

_“They’re real to the mind.”_

He’s not hallucinating. This is all _George._

He panics, finally manages to choke out words, a strangled, frightened cry of—

_“George—“_

George blinks. 

Glances over his shoulder.

Glances down at their clasped hands, crushed between their chests.

He yanks his hand away like it’s burned him, and Dream feels the blood flow return to his fingers and he slumps against the tree in a flood of relief, as George blinks back tears, his jaw shifting back as the fangs dissolve, returning to his human form, serpentine eyes becoming a soft, mottled brown.

The animals frightened, desperate warning calls are silenced. The shadows melt back into nothing.

The orangutan was never there to begin with.

_“I’m so sorry,”_ George gasps, hands grabbing at his hair and _pulling,_ as he slumps back to a seated position, some distance between them both as he says, “I lost control, they weren’t real, I’m so _sorry.”_

Dream thinks of the strange solidity of the shadows that were forming.

Thinks of the orangutan.

Thinks of the sharp, burning claw marks in his chest, stinging with sweat and exertion, _and something else—_

“They’re real enough,” he murmurs.  
  


George shuffles further away. Dream resists the urge to follow him, tries to focus on the aching bones in his hand, on the heat of his wounds.

He fails, and he pushes through the syrup of the air to press against his side, comforting the both of them. 

He relishes in the electrical, magic hum of George’s skin against his own, and feels his subconscious _preen_ when after some hesitation, George gives in, and leans against Dream’s shoulder, careful, cautious and gentle.

“You’re so _precious,”_ he murmurs, and Dream shivers at the sugar lacing his words.

George swallows, before he continues, carefully.

“It _was_ an accident. To begin with. I would have lived,” he glances up at the flowers above them, “I had so much to live for.”

There’s a beat of silence, with only the sound of a bird’s beating wings somewhere in the distance, before he continues.

“The forest made me a deal. It would help me live,” he chews his lip carefully, _“Help me get my revenge._ Part of it’s spirit would reside in me, and it would stay until I wanted it gone. All I had to do was—” he hesitates, glancing at Dream nervously, “Was give it my _name.”_

_“Will you tell me your original name?”_

“...What’s so important about names?”

“Names have _power,”_ George admits, weakly, “By giving somebody your name, you let them have _influence_ over you. Otherwise, their influence would sort of just… _wear off._ Like, how after we danced, you likely had _residual_ spirit left in you. You would have _seen things,_ even _appeared_ differently, like how _I_ see things, or how _I_ look. I had to give up my name, in order for that to stay.”

“What would you have done with _my_ name?” Dream queries, and his eyebrows raise in shock as George _flushes—_

“Nothing _bad,”_ George insists, but he looks away, pink flush still dappled across his moonlight skin, and refuses to look back at Dream when he speaks.

“So, I gave it my name. And that gave it the power to reside in me, _inside my head, my heart,”_ he rests a hand on his chest as he speaks, an almost fond tone to his voice, “And the forest wrapped my wounds in the snake skin that had caused them, _cradled me_ in it like a _child_ as it _forced_ me to _breathe_ through the hole in my neck, helped me _breathe_ through the blood in my lungs, until, _finally,_ I _healed.”_

He traces the scar once more.

“I healed, and I cared for the spirits in the forest, the ones you saw when we danced, and then, I—” he smiles, “I got my _payback.”_

His smile turns down at the corners.

“But, by the time I got my payback, it had been _so long,_ and I had no reason to want to leave anymore,” his tone saddens once more, and Dream leans against him in comfort, “Nobody ever looked for me, although my family _adored me._ So I figure, whatever lies he told, they must have been good ones.”

He sighs.

“So, I let the spirit in me stay,” he scratches the dirt as he speaks, “And over time, I’ve become more _it,_ and less _me._ I had no reason to want to be human. No reason to want them gone. But _you,”_ he laughs, shy, “You make me want to be human now, and it’s pushing the other half out, and _they don’t like it.”_

He pauses, finally looking at Dream once more.

“I’m not sure what’ll happen if I decide to force them out.”

Dream breaks at the notes of childlike fear in his tone.

He reaches out, and spreads his aching hand over the centre of George’s chest.

Underneath his spirited, moonlight skin, a human heart beats, thundering with the sound of the forest’s drums.

George places a hand over his, and Dream looks up, looks into his gaze as George shyly asks—

“Do you want to dance again? It’ll be easier, this time, I _promise.”_

The drums echo, as he takes George’s hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS  
> WAS  
> SO  
> HARD  
> TO WRITE AAAAAAAAAAAAA
> 
> i ended up viewing the lyrics as like, the forest speaking to human George, and then the last verse and chorus and being fae George talking to Dream, and the outro seen as either way!!
> 
> I really hope you guys liked this!! I look forward to your comments as always!! I adore you!


	6. intruxx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gone inside of the wild zabajaba
> 
> all the mad and the sad gonna have atcha
> 
> sour plants hungry fangs, jabazaba
> 
> tangles mass in the vast zabajaba

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> intruxx is track 6, and it’s almost like a funky little interlude before we get back into the mess of things!!
> 
> it’s a wonderful track, gentle and interesting in the beginning, but picks up pace around the halfway mark before it fades out again, and i tried to convey that in the flow of this chapter.
> 
> give it a listen!!

_ Dream spins.  _

_ The forest melts. _

The bark of an oak tree peels, crawling and sliding down it’s trunk, before creeping back up again. It’s ashy grey tone pulses and shifts, slipping into warmer, darker shades, as it resumes it’s false peel.

The grass at his feet repeats it’s textures, mirrored repeatedly, almost symmetrically across the ground that Dream dances upon, rising up to meet his steps as it breathes. 

As Dream is spun once more from George’s hands, he stumbles on the twirl, as he gazes into the eyes of animals that don’t belong here, eyes of baboons and clouded leopards as they laze in the shadows and watch.

He stumbles, he trips, and he falls to his knees in the dirt and the grass, laughing the whole way. 

_ Yes, this dance is definitely easier, more gentle, more fluid. _

He flops onto his back, next to his bag and his camera, wheezes another laugh that is echoed by the hooting of the baboon, and George laughs with him.

“You’re so  _ pretty,”  _ George grins from where he stands, nowhere near as dizzy or as uncoordinated as Dream, inhuman and poised.

“I’m not as pretty as you,” Dream insists twisting to reach to his pack for the camera, the motion tugging at his wounds and pulling at the adhesive of his bandages, “Nowhere near.”

The pain is distant and numb, like it belongs to somebody else, and he completes the motion, the camera shutter clicking as he aims the lens down at George.

He thinks he could photograph George all day, with his milky skin and his pearly white teeth, contrasting so deliciously with the rosy flush of his cheeks, the soft pink of his mouth, of the tongue that he sticks out in protest.

_It’s a very human gesture._

Dream attempts to tell him so and—

He slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes wide with shock and confusion as George  _ giggles. _

_What just came out of his mouth?_

He tries to speak again, and the garbled gibberish returns, a mess of twisted syllables and sounds, nothing that fits the shapes of his mouth, and he slaps a hand over his mouth again.

“You’re speaking normally, you know,” George laughs, and his teeth are straight and human, “You just think you aren’t. It’s a side effect of the residual energy. Your speech will come back soon.”

_ Is it like the hallucinations he had? Like how his eyes changed in the mirror? _

He queries this, in his nonsensical tongue, and George nods.

As he returns his camera to his pack, and lies down on the forest floor, watching a beetle scurry from under a leaf, Dream tells him that he could stay like this forever.

“You could,” George states, as he stares up at the glowing sun, it’s beams causing colourful flares of light, orbs of diffracted shades of red and green peering down at them.

Dream shakes his head. He couldn’t leave Sapnap. He mentions this, and George tilts his head in confusion.

He informs George that Sapnap is his best friend. _An excellent writer, and good to work with._

_A good nurse, too,_ he adds, tapping at his bandages, making George laugh.

So yeah, he could never leave Sapnap. _And besides,_ he explains, his words tossing and turning in his mouthing, more confusion and tangles than the mangroves of the river, _this forest scares the shit out of him now._

“The forest scares you,” George scoffs, “But I don’t?”

Dream shrugs his shoulders, grins, attempts to say ‘only sometimes’, and George gives a low chuckle.

“What if I said I wanted to _keep_ you? Would that scare you then?”

Dream tilts his head from where he lays, stares at George instead of the canopy above them, and thinks.

His words slowly come back, and this time when he speaks, only half comes out upside-down and wrong.

_I think I’d—_ “—let you,” he hears himself, finally, his voice partially skipping over syllables like a broken record, “It’d be hypocritical of me—“ _—not to._

He loses grasp on his language once again, words dissolving into a slippery cacophony of noise and babble. It doesn’t phase him this time. He knows George can understand him.

There’s the beginning of a flush rising on that milky, moonlight skin of his, and Dream wonders just how rose-red he can make this otherworldly being flush, how human he can force him to be with just his words alone.

Not being able to understand his own speech, it makes him _brave._ He knows what he’s saying, sure, can feel his mouth make the corresponding shapes, feel his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth intermittently, feel the airflow of his words. 

But when it all sounds complex, and nonsensical, Dream doesn’t have to hear himself say it.

So he tells George everything.

_About how he’d like to keep him, all to himself, keep him safe and tucked away and loved, so loved._ He reaches over to the boy sitting next to him, and runs his fingers up and down his forearm, relishing in the tingle of energy it emanates, in the sensation of George’s skin against his own.

_He tells him about how his spirit side is dangerous, but ethereal, chaotic and otherworldly, so intriguing and gorgeous. But,_ he pulls himself upright to sit, to reach out with both hands, to touch with both hands, to caress with both hands, _his human side, it’s soft. He’s so beautiful, he’s so perfect._

_“My wild boy,”_ he finishes, and his words ring clear in his own ears, no nonsense or false syllables.

George’s flush has flipped from a soft pink to a muted shade of red, _dark and aggressive_ against his delicate, silvery skin, and it runs along his cheekbones, down his neck and over the tips of his ears.

George, who has powers Dream can only _imagine,_ is rendered almost entirely _speechless,_ as he squirms under Dream’s touch, looks away, off to the side at the shadowy figures of animals who peek at them from the undergrowth, at the whistling insects and the warbling amphibians hiding in the damp leaf litter.

“I’ll show _you_ wild,” he mumbles, no heat to his words, “I think I liked it more when you were _scared_ of me.”

“I still _am_ scared of you,” Dream whispers, a soft admission of the truth, cautiously reaching up to turn George’s face back toward him, to take in that pretty flush and his nervously bitten lips, his oh-so human appearance, “But I’m scared for _different_ reasons now.”

The air is sugary again, melted caramel and thick syrup making up the atmosphere, and he leans forward, pushes through the resistance of the power lingering in the air, and he presses his mouth against George’s with care.

The sweet, earthy taste of George’s mouth drags him in deeper, makes him  _ hunger _ for it as he licks at his bottom lip, asking politely for it, begging for it as his breath begins to come in harsh exhales, and George parts his lips for him so nicely, and Dream relishes in the slide of his tongue against his own, drinks him in with a fever as he slides the hand that cups George’s jaw, down to the collar of his holed t-shirt, grips gently at his neck.

The lights behind his closed eyelids flicker, vibrant shades of red, green and blue, forming rivers of colour. With his eyes closed, it’s almost like he can still  _ see,  _ faintly making out the energy of George’s soul, the vivid colours of it a pulsing haze. He can see eyes, thousands of eyes, blinking at him, hungry mouths opening and closing, teeth gnashing together as he nips at George’s mouth, before angles his head down to nip at the soft skin of his neck.

The ground beneath them disappears, the sounds of the forest far-off, elsewhere, and in this moment, all Dream knows is  _ George. _

George’s breathy moans explode into fireworks beneath his eyes, and each sharp breath he takes makes the visuals brighten, intensify, like they  _ feed  _ off the pleasure Dream is giving him.

He is faintly aware of the flickering of light, of the incorrect passage of time, influenced and distorted by the chaos of the forest’s energy in concentrated use, aware of the sun rising and falling, giving way to the moon in mere minutes. 

As he opens his eyes to lick at the marks on George’s neck, kiss at the light bruising and the indentations of his teeth, he absentmindedly wonders how long he’s been here this time. 

  
They fall back to the earth together, and Dream buries his face in the crook of George’s neck, inhaling his earthy, syrup scent.

“I want you to leave here with me,” he murmurs, “I want to show you the whole world,  _ the real world.” _

“But,” George hesitates, “What if I wanted you to stay  _ here?” _

“You know I can’t,” Dream whispers, and he doesn’t want to think about the pain that statement causes, not far off like his physical pain, this one far too close and centred in his chest, “I’d never be able to willingly give this place my name. It scares me far too much.”

There’s a beat. He feels George shift, kiss the side of his head, and bury his face in his hair a moment, feels the dampness of  _ something— _

“I know,” he hears him whisper.

And then he’s gone.

Dream is left sitting in the clearing, as the forest melts around him, alone.

The afternoon sun beams down on him, warmth shining onto his shoulders.

_ But,  _ he thinks as he picks up his gear, stumbles through the syrupy air towards the trail,  _ he doesn’t feel warm at all. _

_ He feels like he might never be warm again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one took a couple of days!! i had it all planned out, but i needed a lil breather. writing the new year fic helped a lot though, as it was a welcome change of pace!! it felt better coming back this after, and i’m feeling quite confident in how i want this all to end now!!
> 
> as always, i’m genofeve over on tumblr, and i simply adore every last one of you!!
> 
> i look forward to responding to your comments!!
> 
> <3


	7. hazey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> no no you're so juiced  
> you said you'd kick the booze  
> you know i'll get bruised  
> you know i'm just a boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! hazey is our SEVENTH track holy cow, we’re past half way now!  
> hazey has this sort of loose, light lilt to it, despite the harsh story that the lyrics tell, before it reaches a crescendo, and then falls into an eerie, unsettling, panicked silence. the lyrics are rather solemn, and sad, and it’s another amazing track from this album.
> 
> sapnap returns as best bro and pro field doctor (in a pinch) once again
> 
> ps; there’s some incredibly incorrect first aid in this chapter, as well as wound n snake mentions!!!
> 
> please enjoy!!

_“I know.”_

George’s solemn words ring through the woods. Even long after he’s gone, Dream can hear him, echoing off the tree’s, bouncing off the dirt and grass, reflecting off the canopy of leaves above him.

He keeps his head down, keeps his eyes focused on what he can see through the lens of his camera, photographing each individual insect, each stray paw print, each scattered indication of any animal of some kind, the perfect distraction from his ringing melancholy, _from his unending guilt._

The camera hangs heavily from it’s leather strap, precariously bouncing against his chest from it’s place around his neck.

Dream hasn’t done anything wrong, and yet, he feels like a criminal.

The sun remains constant. He’s travelled far enough from the origin point of George’s energy, and time is no longer distorted, passing normally once more, returning to the point it was at prior, prior to the dance he and his wild boy shared.

Late afternoon, however many days in the past. 

_He’s not sure._

Dream walks. Keeps his eyes on the ground, and ignores the way the patterns of the grass and roots beneath his feet seem to repeat, over, _and over again,_ almost an infinite cycle of symmetrical fractals of nature.

He sips a spare water bottle from his pack, and tucks it under his elbow.

_Just keep moving._

He _knows_ he’s moving, knows it’s another illusion, he’s looked up a thousand times to check, figured out on the one thousand and first, and now, he keeps his head down.

He tells himself it’s the constant repetition, or the way the roots seem to crawl underneath him, like writhing tendrils of something bigger, something _alive,_ that’s making him nauseous, and not the lack of George.

Despite the minimal grasp on logic he manages to barely maintain, the residual energy still makes him dizzy, confused and lost. He finds himself forgetting turns he’s taken, forgetting whole sections of the path after he completes them, his mind too far away to remember accurately.

It wouldn’t be an issue, not really.

Except, for when he’s almost home.

So close, _so, so close,_ he’s past the treeline, in the grassy hills between the cabin and the woods.

And he sees it.

Nestled amongst the grass and stray branches, swirled into a tight spiral, is a snake.

It suns it’s tawny scales, tests the air with a swift movement of it’s forked tongue, and Dream wonders if it can taste the sugar in the air.

As he kneels to photograph the creature, it occurs to him that this is a snake he knows, the muted brown colouring, and the spade shape of it’s head so awfully similar, and he thinks perhaps he’s even photographed it before.

But the name escapes him, his thoughts too slippery, too wet with the melted sugar coating of George, _George,_ **_George—_ **

He kneels down, the water bottle adjusted, jammed under his armpit, fiddles with the lens of his camera, with his photo settings.

The shutter clicks, and he focuses on a few close-ups of the snake’s distinctive scale pattern, and of it’s elliptical shaped eyes, images that he _knows_ Sapnap will _hate,_ but will _love_ for an article.

The snake’s tongue flickers once more, and it exhales a slow, angry hiss, flattening itself out in a familiar, reptilian show of a response to provocation.

Dream knows when it’s time to leave.

But, as he stands up, the water bottle under his armpit _slips._

It _hits_ the dirt.

It _bounces._

And, understandably, it _pisses off_ the already unsettled snake.

  
  
  


It’s not that later, although how much not that later, he’s unsure, when Dream accidentally swings the front door open _way_ too fucking hard. 

It collides with the wall, denting it, and Dream winces, because _wow, that’s probably gonna come out of his and Sapnap’s next pay._

He winces again when he hears a startled yelp from the study.

_Sapnap._

He emerges from the room in a shock, laptop brandished in hands like a weapon, a combination expression of both fear and aggression painted across his face, his aggression only slightly outweighing his fear. 

“Oops,” Dream says, his grin loose and sideways, as he discards his pack and camera to a spare couch cushion, before flopping next to them himself.

The aggression slips from Sapnap’s face, leaving only confusion as he takes in the sight of Dream on the couch.

Sapnap blinks at him as he lowers his laptop.

“Oh my _god,”_ he says, placing the laptop on the coffee table at last, a sense of urgency in his steps as he rounds it and approaches Dream, _“Dude,_ did you fall? What happened? You’ve busted your stitches, man, _shit.”_

Dream glances down.

_Oh. He’s right._

The adhesive on the little strips holding his wounds together has disconnected, and in his tumble, it seems like he’s re-opened what was the beginning of scabs. They’ve bled through the old bandages that covered them, and there are a few spots staining the muted green button-up he sports, dark and damp.

He’s also faintly aware of a painful sensation, something intense and burning, but it’s far away, distant, and to him currently, the burning is nothing more than the warmth of a campfire, embers heating the air.

He can’t place where it’s coming from. He figures it’s probably not important.

Sapnap’s hands are fluttering, like he doesn’t know where to begin, like he’s taking inventory of each scrape and bruise, each scratch of branches, each ruined bandage.

“I told you,” he hisses, as he moves forward, finally, deciding to work on the damage done to Dream’s chest first, unbuttoning it angrily, “I _told_ you, I wasn’t gonna _fucking do this again—“_

The first-aid kit still resides on the coffee table from it’s last use, and as Sapnap reaches for it, he glances back at Dream, at the loose, easy smile he wears despite his physical state of distress, at the beads of sweat pooling on his forehead, and he pauses.

Dream tries to school the hazey expression he wears. But suppressing it just makes him _laugh._

Sapnap’s face is lined with colours, outlines of red, green and blue mapping the contours of his face, and they trace the shocked way that his jaw drops in realisation, the exasperated way that he snarls.

“Dream, you _idiot,”_ he shouts, removing an adhesive bandage from Dream’s skin with a little more force than necessary, “You went and saw him _again?_ Don’t you _remember_ what happened last time? You said you wouldn’t—“

 _“Actually,”_ Dream interrupts, still lazy and stupid, “I never said that.”

He thinks Sapnap might actually hit him. Smack him over the head with the bottle of antiseptic he’s got in his hand. He grins, but it’s soft and slow, as thinks back on the dance, of the passing of days and nights, _of the taste of earth._

“Besides,” he continues, “It was better this time.”

Sapnap’s not an idiot. 

“Oh my _god,_ ” he grouches through clenched teeth, as he presses an antiseptic soaked cotton ball against the re-opened claw marks lining Dream’s chest, “You _kissed him,_ didn’t you?”

“You _can’t_ be mad at me, Sap,” Dream argues lightly, drifting back and forth from the stinging reality of pain, to the sugar-soaked distant air of the residual energy, “I got you your otters.”

“They wanna be some real good shots, man,” Sapnap purses his lips, and Dream can see he’s trying not to smile at his idiocy, “Some people would pay good money to have me play nurse for ‘em, you know?”

Dream laughs at that, and Sapnap smacks shoulder, tells him to stay still.

The sting of antiseptic is familiar, but still distant, far-off like the white hot burning that he still can’t quite place.

There’s another pain, too.

“My chest aches,” he sighs, and Sapnap snorts.

“Yeah, no shit.”

“Mm, not like that.”

Sapnap stills in cleaning the dirt from Dream’s wounds, tilts his head back to look at the ceiling, in a perfect physical display of _‘are you fucking kidding me right now?’_

He sighs, resumes his nurse duties, beginning to re-bandage all the cuts and scrapes.

“Dream, _please_ don’t tell me that you’re in _love_ with the little psycho—“

“He’s not,” Dream protests, the ache in his chest lonesome and sorrowful, “He’s just— He’s _lonely, and he’s sad.”_

He sighs, drunk and melancholic.

“But, I can’t stay here with him, can I?”

“No,” Sapnap laughs in disbelief, shakes his head, “No, you cannot, because it will _kill you.”_

He snags Dream’s loose camera, powers it up, aims it, takes a shot of him.

The flash is jarring, _sobering._

“Look at yourself.”

On the display, the bandages are a stark white against his tanned skin, and there are still numerous scrapes that litter his body sporadically. The bruises are uncountable, and Dream’s eyes are glazed, hazey and distant.

He’s a mess. Even he can see that.

Sapnap sighs, pulls the camera back toward himself, and begins flicking through previously taken photos on display.

“I better not find a porno in here, Dream, or I swear to _god—“_

He pauses, squints at the display, shakes his head as he lets out a short exhale of surprise.

 _“Jesus,”_ he exclaims in a hushed whisper, “Dream, do you _know_ how long you were apparently _gone for?_ This has photos dated a _week_ from now you _moron.”_

He’s shaking his head, cursing under his breath, as Dream thinks of the distorted time, the passage of the sun and the moon overhead as he and George had sat in the clearing together.

_A week seems right._

Sapnap pauses again, and then he _swears._

“Fucking _hell,_ dude,” he shakes his head, tugs the display closer to his face by about an inch, examining in shock, concern paving the way for his words, “Is that a _cottonmouth?_ It looks _pissed.”_

_Cottonmouth?_

Oh.

_Oh_ _god._

The name of the snake, the name he couldn’t quite recall. He jolts him, _hard,_ and it _sobers him,_ the dizzy confusion and the syrupy euphoria leaking away in a rush, chased away by _fear,_ as he _remembers—_

“Oh _god,”_ the burning pain that was once so far off is now disturbingly close, and Dream can feel himself beginning to panic, beginning to hyperventilate as he locates it now, settled in his left leg, in his calf, just above where his hiking boots end, “Sapnap, my _leg—“_

“What—“

Dream struggles to sit up, to pull his leg up off the floor, as the residual magic ebbs away in his bloodstream, replaced by _venom,_ venom that makes his limbs heavy and useless as he paws at his worn-out jeans.

Sapnap stretches out Dream’s leg, rests his foot on the coffee table, beside the laptop and the first-aid kit, and together, they find it.

There’s a small tear in the old denim, in an unfortunately threadbare area. Dream can feel his arms going limp as he tries to paw at it, turning into useless lumps of muscle, of flesh and bone, and Sapnap urgently pushes his hands away, rolling up the leg of his jeans as Dream begins to feel _sick._

There’s blood. There’s _a lot of blood._

It drools from a puncture wound in his leg, unable to clot, unable to congeal, surrounded by a nasty cloud of purple, tinged with an uglier, aggressive shade of black.

His leg is beginning to swell, inflating like a balloon.

He’s completely hyperventilating now, breath coming in short, panicked pants and he’s not sure if it’s the anxiety, or the result of the venom that crawls through his veins.

“Oh fuck,” Sapnap is panicking, “Oh fuck, oh _fuck!_ Dream, that photo was taken an _over an hour_ ago, how do just fucking _forget_ that you’ve been bitten by a fucking _viper, dude?!_ How are you not _screaming?”_

“George,” Dream says simply, weakly, tight and wheezing through his panic, an explanation.

George’s lingering energy had staved off the pain. It’d likely staved off the symptoms as well, slowed the progression of the venom.

He didn’t even know he’d been bit.

Sapnap sounds far off as he rifles through the first-aid kit, checking each item like he isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for.

 _He isn’t,_ Dream realises distantly, _oh no._

“Fuck, _fuck,”_ Sapnap hisses as his hands settle on a roll of fabric bandage, “Do you tourniquet for snakebites or not? _Fuck,_ I can’t _remember!”_

He glances over at Dream, and Dream thinks he must look like absolute _shit,_ because he can see Sapnap’s eyes widen as he makes a snap decision.

“Okay, _okay, fuck,_ I’m gonna— I’m doing a tourniquet, okay? Just— just, _fuck,_ stay with me? _Okay?”_

Dream doesn’t respond. Doesn’t think it’d be wise to waste the energy, as he listens to the way his heartbeat stumbles and falters, beating out of sync, _out of time,_ as it races and stutters.

There’s an unbelievable, strong source of pressure, _painful,_ as Sapnap winds the bandage just below Dream’s knee, above the bite mark on his calf, tight enough to bruise, and, finally, Dream caves, and he _yelps._

He can feel tears forming as the cry rips from his throat and Sapnap apologises again, _and again,_ as he bandages, and bandages, _and bandages—_

“I’m so sorry, Dream, I’m _so_ sorry, I don’t know what to _do,”_ he sounds as though he’s on the verge of crying himself, “I can’t call emergency, we have no phone service here, and we’re so _far_ from the nearest hospital, Dream, _I’m so sorry—“_

 _“George,”_ Dream tries, and it chokes out in a strangled sob.

 _“George?_ What—“ 

It clicks.

“Oh god, yes— Okay, _yes, okay,_ maybe he can help, alright, _fuck—“_ Sapnap stands, tugging Dream up with him as he cries out in pain, “You _need_ to _stand,_ Dream, I’m so sorry, but you need to— Come _on.”_

Sapnap is encouraging and apologetic all at once as he loops Dream’s arm around his shoulders, supporting him towards the door in broken, shaky steps and sobs, Dream sobbing for the burning in his leg, for the fear he feels, for the nausea settling in hard and brutal, for stress he’s placed upon his closest friend.

His leg is on _fire._

They leave the door open, and they stumble toward the treeline together, hastily, and yet still too slow, and Sapnap whispers hushed promises, hushing his panicked, pained cries.

“I’m gonna take you to your weird ass boyfriend, and it’s gonna be fine—“

Dream thinks Sapnap might be comforting himself, more than he is Dream.

_“It’s gonna be fine.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy that’s not good lmao
> 
> i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!!! aaaas always, i’m genofeve over on tumblr, and you!!! have been beautiful <3
> 
> ps: special thank u to the current followers of my tumblr who witnessed my “jägerbomb arc” last night uh oh HAHA


	8. toes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and all i ever want  
> is just a little love  
> i said in purrs under the palms  
> and all i ever want is breaking me apart  
> i said to the thing that i once was

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woops this took me a while HAHA SORRY
> 
> toes is track number eight!! the lyrics talk about a creature who is a man, although he is twisted, foolish and unusual, and i think that describes our boy George here perfectly, don’t you?
> 
> i really hope you guys enjoy this!!!! we’re so close to being done <3

It takes them years to reach the treeline.

Dream knows it’s not that far to walk. The cabin resides so close to it. But the pain is unending, leaving him burning and hot, sweat pooling on his skin as he clings to his best friend desperately.

Sapnap never stops speaking to him.

He’s a constant stream of encouragement, and apologies, and Dream just hopes that if he does die, he can find a way to tell him to _shut up._

_It’s not his fault._

_None of this is._

Dream’s head spins, a dizzy tango of nauseating, swirling colours, and he continues to stumble.

He thinks his brain might be dissolving, turning to a useless lump of _mush_ between his ears.

It takes them years to reach the treeline. But eventually, they do.

They stumble into the thick of branches, tripping on tree roots and each other, step into the myriad of vibrant green foliage, into the living kaleidoscope of colour, and life.

Sapnap is swearing next to him.

Dream has to struggle to make out what he’s saying. His head feels like it’s underwater.

_He wonders if his brain has melted yet._

“Fuck, _fuck—“_ Sapnap stumbles again, tugging Dream further into the overgrown woods, _“How are we supposed to find—“_

There’s a _flicker._

Sapnap freezes.

A familiar knife is pointed at him, the tip of the metal blade pointed between his eyes, and he peers at it in shock, at the moonlight hands that holds it.

He holds one hand up in a surrender, and he hisses—

“Jesus, _fuck,_ Dream, what kind of a type do you _have?”_

In other circumstances, Dream probably would have laughed.

But right now, nobody’s laughing.

George’s dark eyes are sporting elliptical pupils, and Dream can see the way his jaw sits, awkward, to make room for the dangerous set of teeth he sports.

His breathing is coming in low, heavy pants, almost _growling._

“What have you _done.”_

“What have _I_ done-? Are you _kidding_ me?” It’s probably not a good idea to yell at George right now, not when he looks like this, not when he has a tighter grip on that knife than he does on his self-control, but Sapnap’s always been stubborn, _“Fuck you,_ man! I had to drag him out here because this _idiot_ got drunk on _you,_ and then decided to piss off a _snake.”_

Dream absently wonders if Sapnap is trying to get himself _killed._

George bristles, adjusting his grip on the knife, but something seems to come over him, an odd sensation of calm.

“A snake?”

Dream wonders if he’s thinking of the parallels between them. If they’ll _both_ be doomed to this forest, how _both_ their fates involve snakes.

He knows he is.

_It’s almost suspicious, in a way._

_In fact._

_It’s very suspicious._

The thought lingers in his gooey brain.

The knife has vanished, god knows where it’s gone, discarded to the forest floor, and George is gesturing wildly.

“Lay him down, quick,” his words are stern, commanding, _“Quick,_ while I can still help.”

Dream can feel himself slipping, as he’s laid down upon the leaf litter. It’s getting harder and harder to stay conscious, and his breathing is laboured, struggling and _wheezing._

A beetle scuttles over the skin of his wrist. It pauses and seems to stare at him. Dream stares back.

The shimmer of George’s own skin seems so much brighter in his feverish haze, and Dream’s tongue feels swollen, like a useless lump of meat, resting in his mouth.

A baboon _hoots_ nearby, nervous as it watches on from its hiding place, and he hears the leaves crumble under the paws of something lurking further in the shadows.

_“Jesus,”_ Sapnap whispers, “How is this _possible?_ They don’t _belong_ here, they don’t—“

He cuts himself off, words dying in his mouth as he spots the familiar mountain lion, lazing in the low bough of an oak tree. He stares at the animals that gather, _gather to watch Dream dying on his back in the woods._

“This isn’t _real.”_

Dream can see the familiar fawn, hiding deep in the shrubbery. He can barely make out the white spots that he knows litter her tawny fur. Her eyes are sad, and gentle. She flicks her ear toward him, watching.

 _“Real to the mind,”_ Dream croaks out.

_Dream just hopes they haven’t come to eat him._

Spots are beginning to cloud his vision. The pain carries on, and he catches brief snippets of hushed, hurried conversation.

_“— shouldn’t have done a tourniquet—“_

_“Fuck, I couldn’t remember—“_

_“When I take it off, it’s going to—“_

Dream slips, misses, loses hold on the conversation. 

He aims a glance at George, seeking comfort in his presence, but when he finds him cutting off the leg of his jeans, the sharp shimmer of the knife _gliding_ through worn denim with ease, he looks away again, squeezes his eyes shut.

He gets the feeling that, whatever follows, is about to _hurt._

There’s a cool hand placed on his ankle, just below the bite. Slender fingers wrap the joint, humming and electric, and he can tell they belong to George.

Something thick, a goopy kind of paste is slathered over the bite and he _howls._

It _stings._

But that’s nothing.

The tourniquet is removed, the release of all that pressure like a _snap,_ and the burning, _the pain, the venom,_ it _rushes,_ it _intensifies,_ it _spreads,_ no longer slowed by the presence of bandages.

All that venom, _building up in one place,_ eating away at the veins inside his leg, it now _surges_ forward, propelled by his rapid heart rate, and he _writhes—_

His shoulders are held in place by another set of hands, _Sapnap’s,_ who continues to spout his nonsense apologies, while George hushes him faintly, his words sounding unfamiliar, lost and confusing in the chaos.

His vision scrambles, and he frantically looks for the fawn, for her soft comforting eyes.

As he searches for her, he’s aware of the trees melting around them. The differing shades of green all swirling into one, dripping from the canopy that hangs above them, a ceiling of oozing leaves. He can hear frogs, chorusing and panicked, chortling out croaks of _advice, of insistence._

The forest is dim, and they are left bathed in the glow of the moon.

The afternoon sun that wore on them minutes ago is nowhere to be seen.

He can feel George’s energy, hanging thick in the air like a humid fog, the sickly, sweet sensation of warm honey layered over him like a blanket.

_But this time, it does nothing to ease the pain._

  
  


He slips in and out of consciousness, picking up on pieces of conversation as George works over him, hearing glimpses of discussion as he plays hopscotch with the line of awake, and not.

_“—even are you?”_

_“—human.”_

_“—not.”_

_“—am, just twisted—“_

He fades. He returns.

The moon sinks, and the sun rises once more. The thin grass peaks through the leaf litter mattress he lies upon, tickling at his skin.

The pain returns with a _vengeance._ He slips once more, fading into lost conversation.

_“—want with him?”_

_“—love him. It’s killing me.”_

_“—him too.”_

He is tugged back into the living world with a force, yanked back into consciousness with a yell, _a scream,_ and the creatures echo back with their own, their yells of concern, and of some kind of _warning,_ mirroring his own, his of fear and pain.

He wishes he could think. Just enough to hear what they were trying so hard to warn him about.

_“—might not work. He’s very far gone.”_

_“—my fault. Shouldn’t have tied the—“_

_“—don’t blame yourself yet.”_

Dream is faintly aware that he might be dying.

He doesn’t want to die.

Another garbled cry of pain escapes his lips.

_“—can’t just let him die.”_

_“—one thing we could do.”_

Wait.

_No._

_Oh god, no._

The suspicion of the snake returns.

The warning cries of the animals grow louder.

_No, please, no._

Dream knows why he couldn’t place the snake now. He knows why it confused him.

Cottonmouth’s aren’t grass snakes. They’re semi-aquatic. They live next to water.

_The snake didn’t belong there._

_Oh god._

He can feel Sapnap’s hands, carding through his filthy hair, working out the knots built up by sweat and dirt, as George asks him for his name.

Sapnap is quiet. When Dream blinks, he can faintly see him staring down at him, the lines of his face contorted and glowing false colours, altered by the energy of the forest. He looks uncertain.

“You need to make a decision, _now.”_

George is panicking.

_He’s losing control,_ Dream realises faintly, when he hears Sapnap’s frightened gasp, feels his hands tighten in his hair, hears the creatures panic, hooves and paws scattering the twigs and leaves beneath them as they kick up dirt, running, scrambling to hide in the undergrowth.

_He’s fading again._

The melted greens and browns of the forest that slide against one another, blend into a thick, black tendril of shadow. The darkness reaches out for him, leaving him cold and shaking.

He thinks he might close his eyes.

Just for a few moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> double uh oh
> 
> as always, I’m genofeve on tumblr, and I adore you all and can’t wait to read your comments!!
> 
> we’re getting so close to the end!!!! oh no!!! no seriously oh no i have no idea what I’m gonna do when this is done
> 
> maybe I’ll finally write that sequel to lightning huh?
> 
> who knows!!
> 
> love you <3


	9. wyrd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so my friend our time is done  
> you and i could’ve had so much  
> with ropes for the bucket  
> of luscious black gold nuggets, yeah
> 
> (don’t go)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boy this one sure is late to the party
> 
> my bad I’ve been off writing uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh  
> bad things HAHA oopsy
> 
> our 3rd last chapter omg i cry
> 
> the theory of the song wyrd, is that it’s actually sung from the point of view of Fate (with a capital F). fate isn’t to be messed with, and by trying to change your own fate, or in this case, somebody else’s, people can get hurt.
> 
> and sometimes, there’s no way to fix what you’ve done.

_ “You need to choose,  _ **_now.”_ **

  
  
  


With a harsh inhale, confused and frightened, Dream bolts upright.

He flails as he gasps, panicking, his hands fisting cotton sheets, and a thin duvet, a far cry from the bed of leaves and twigs that he had laid upon only moments ago.

Or, at least, what  _ seemed  _ like moments ago.

His bedroom in the cabin greets him, and glances at the puddle of sheets he rests under, uncertain.

He  _ aches. _

The pain is  _ constant, _ and seems to emanate from his entire body, caused by the numerous injuries he had amassed over his time here.

And yet, it feels…  _ old. _

His wounds do not sting and pulse, or burn. His pain is not fresh. His pain consists of dull aches, throbbing like old injuries,  _ forgotten bruises, lost memories. _

He blinks, and tries to sit up further, moves to the edge of the bed, weak and exhausted as he clings to the frame, feet aching as they  _ finally _ touch the floor.

“Sap,” he tries.

His voice is soft, broken, like choking on gravel.

He is suddenly aware of just how fucking  _ thirsty _ he is.

He swallows. He tries again.

_ “Sapnap?” _

It’s louder this time, still rusted with disuse, but it works. He can hear his friend’s footfalls on the wooden floor, softened by the socks he wears as he runs to him.

He slides a little when he gets to the room, an unfortunate result of the socks.

“Oh, shit,” his eyes widen when he locks eyes with a standing Dream,  _ “Shit,  _ uh, give me a second.”

He disappears again, just for a moment, and returns with a bottle of water, which he uncaps and hands to Dream, gently, watching him carefully, his face stunned as he watches him drink, before it crumbles into a mess of  _ relief. _

Sapnap drags him into a hug, and Dream offers no resistance, shakily exhaling against his shoulder, wrapping an aching arm around his best friend in return.

They sit side by side on the edge of the bed, until Dream finally chokes out—

“Sap, what  _ happened?” _

Sapnap seems to hesitate. Thinking about the best way to go about whatever he needs to say,  _ whatever way to rip the bandage off the quickest, whatever way to make the confusion lessen the easiest. _

“I didn’t give him your name.”

Dream shakes his head, frowns, glancing sideways at his best friend.

“Then how—?”

“You were  _ never _ going to die,” Sapnap interrupts with a sigh, “He never would have let you get that far.”

He sighs again, and Dream grips the water bottle just a little tighter. Sapnap continues.

“You were  _ sick,  _ sure, but you  _ weren’t _ going to die. When he started saying that— that what he was doing wasn’t working, I was confused. Because, like,” he scratches at his nose, shakes his head in disbelief, like even now he still can’t comprehend it, “You were still in pain, sure. But, you  _ looked better. _ You didn’t seem as bad as before, and— and you had colour in your face and—“

Sapnap swallows.  


“When he asked for your name, it was just…  _ deafening.  _ All the noises of all these animals, crying out, descending into _chaos,_ and it was like they were—  _ I don’t know—  _ like they were  _ warning _ us.”

Dream thinks he can still hear the cries in his head.  _ Primal, afraid, concerned. _

“It just felt…  _ wrong. _ So, I didn’t give him your name. And then he got pissed off,” Sapnap carefully brushes a scab that runs along his cheek, the thin swipe of a knife, not dodged quite quickly enough, “He got  _ really _ pissed off.”

Dream isn’t sure if Sapnap is brave as hell, or just plain  _ fucking stupid. _

“And  _ then _ he started  _ panicking. _ He tried to convince me a little longer, but with how he’d just reacted, I knew it was a lot bigger than he was letting on,” Sapnap steals the water from Dream’s hands, takes a nervous sip before returning it, “And then when I didn’t give it up?”

He laughs at this, but it’s short, and paired with a roll of his eyes, like it’s not  _ quite  _ funny, but  _ maybe _ it would be under different circumstances.

“When I didn’t give it up, he somehow,  _ miraculously _ healed you anyway. And then  _ I _ had to lug your comatose ass all the way back here, because he fuckin’ just…  _ disappeared.” _

Sapnap shrugs.

“So, my best guess is that his whole plan was to somehow get you to stay, using your name. But, he just wasn’t really planning on me calling him out on it.”

  
  


_ “Names have  _ **_power.”_ **

  
  


Sapnap traces the cut on his face once more.

“He’s fucking  _ fast, _ too,  _ Jesus. _ But, he couldn’t let you die. So.”

_ So. _

“I think,” Dream speaks in hushed whispers, gravelled tones, broken glass, “I think he might have placed the snake in my path.”

“Make you sick, so you needed him. Makes sense. He probably didn’t expect you to come home to me first.”

There’s white, hot rage swelling deep in Dream’s veins, tugging at the headache, at the low pains in his body, and he swears, bitter, disgusted.

Sapnap, surprisingly, just shrugs.

“I mean, I get it, kind of. He hasn’t had anyone to talk to in a  _ long _ time. He’s lonely as fuck, and you basically have given him everything he could have asked for in the time we’ve been here,” he pushes hair out of his eyes as he speaks, ignores the way Dream  _ vibrates _ with anger, “It’s kind of understandable that he wouldn’t want to let you go.”

“Are you fucking  _ kidding me?”  
_

Sapnap scoffs at his misdirected anger.

“No. I don’t really know how he died, but I know he does have that _scar,”_ he traces his neck as he says it, outlines where George’s fatal mark lies, “So the fact that he  _ trusts _ you? It’s probably  _ huge. _ And, it  _ probably _ didn’t help that even though you kept getting hurt, you  _ always _ went back. Kinda fueled the fire.”

_ “Fuck you,  _ that doesn’t give him the right to keep—“

“I didn’t say it did,  _ idiot. _ I’m just saying, I understand. And besides,” he glances toward a curtained window, “I think he feels bad.”

“And you know this  _ how?” _

“I keep seeing him at the treeline. Kinda fucking freaking me out honestly.”

Dream pauses. 

“Sap, how _long_ was I _out?”_

“Eh, it’s kinda hard to say. Time was all fucked up when I was carrying you back.” Sapnap scratches at his face once more, looks up, squinting in thought, “And even then, every now and again you’d kinda get up, and I’d drag you to the bathroom, but I guess you’ve been technically out for like... shit, three days?”

Dream glances toward the window, curtains fluttering with the slightest of breeze. He can’t see outside.

Nobody could see inside either.

_ It clicks. _

“He’s still there, isn’t he. That’s why the curtains are closed.”

He tries to keep his voice level, keep his tone even, but his rage seeps into it, and Sapnap clicks in front of him, garnering his attention.

“Go fight your boyfriend later, dickhead. You need food and a shower. You fucking  _ reek.” _

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend.”

His tone is bitter, sour and sharp, and even though Sapnap is not the recipient of those harsh words, he flinches, face twitching in shock.

But Dream does agree with one thing.

_ He fucking reeks. _

  
  
  
  


Although slightly unstable on his feet, Dream showers. 

As the water runs down him in rivulets, he’s made aware that all of his bandages and butterfly stitches have been removed. 

The bite on his calf is almost non-existent. Aside from the strange silvery scarring, and the odd, faded colouration of his skin, it was like it was never there at all.

_ And it’s not just that. _

Cuts are healed into puckered pink scars, previously open wounds sealed back together, weeks of healing sped up, accelerated.

Bruises that had once appeared like storm clouds, dark, dangerous and stark against his skin, are now a mottled conglomeration of faded, mossy yellows and browns, or, simply,  _ just not there. _

George hadn’t just healed the snakebite.

_ He’d healed everything. _

Dream stamps down the desire to be  _ proud. _

He doesn’t make eye contact with the mirror as he dresses. 

He avoids his reflection, for fear of seeing George’s serpentine eyes in place of his own, for fear he’ll wake up, lost in the forest,  _ forever. _

  
  
  


His stomach  _ growls,  _ gnaws at him from the inside, and a wave of nausea passes over him, bile rising in his throat as his stomach contracts, _violent and hungry,_ causing reflux.

He ignores it as he passes through the cabin, eyes locked on the front door.

Sapnap is unhappy with his lack of eating, and even unhappier with the way he stalks toward the door, the force behind each stumbled step.

“Dream, you need to—“

_ “Later.” _

His voice is deadpan, and he’s not sure if Sapnap argues with him or not, because the door slams closed behind him.

He stumbles up the grassy hill, pushes himself toward the treeline, aching and starving,  _ angry and betrayed. _

When he reaches the trees, there’s no sign of him.

No telltale shimmer, no honey-glazed air. 

_ He’s hiding. He’s scared. _

_ Sapnap’s voice in his head, “I think he feels bad.” _

The anger drowns out everything.

In a rage, he calls for him.

_ “George!” _

Birds squawk in return, fluttering in the trees, shocked by his unusual volume, _his abrasiveness, his disrespect for his peaceful surroundings._

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him.

George peeks out from behind the wide, mossy trunk of an oak tree, shy, nervous, careful.

_ Afraid. _

_ It’s a stark contrast to their first meeting. _

“I  _ know _ what you  _ did.” _

Dream’s words come out in a growl,  _ feral and angry, _ as the  _ rage _ that builds inside of him begins to bubble over,  _ seeping out of the unsealed edges of his being. _

“The  _ snake,” _ he continues, stepping towards the frightened man, the frightened thing, “The  _ lies.  _ My  _ name.” _

  
George sinks. His moonlight skin is flushed, pink with shame, and even in his fury, Dream has to resist the urge to stare.

“I could have  _ died, _ George!”

“No—  _ No!” _ He glances up in shock, eyes wide, frantic,  _ desperate,  _ “I wouldn’t have let you  _ die, _ I—“

“Oh, and that’s  _ better?  _ The fact that you would have  _ trapped _ me here,  _ forever?!” _

George is beginning to panic.

Dream can see it in the way his eyes flash, anxious, rounded pupils thinning to elliptical slits.

“I shouldn’t have—“ He admits, taking another step back, like he  _ isn’t _ the one with all the power, like he  _ couldn’t  _ kill Dream if he simply chose to, “The forest told me that I shouldn’t—“

“The forest tried to  _ warn me.” _

“I just wanted you to  _ stay,”  _ and it’s soft, so delicate, so honest and Dream—

_ Dream doesn’t care. _

“You’re a  _ murderer,” _ and it’s a low blow, feels sick and twisted as it tumbles from his mouth, “No better than the  _ coward _ who hurt  _ you.” _

“That‘s not—“

“You told me the forest saved you, because it felt  _ sorry for you.  _ That you were a  _ wrong death.  _ And yet, you were about to do  _ that _ to  _ me. I _ would have been a  _ wrong death,  _ just like  _ you.” _

He’s  _ angry.  _ He’s  _ livid.  _ And the words,  _ they don’t stop coming. _

_ He can still hear Sapnap’s voice in his head. _

_ Telling him how he understands. _

_ How it makes sense, really. _

The anger pushes it down. Pushes down  _ any _ common sense that may have lingered, may have stopped him from saying—

“You’re not human, you’re  _ dangerous. _ You’ll  _ kill me. _ I can’t see you anymore, George.”

George is hyperventilating.

His shimmering hands are  _ shaking,  _ and the awkward, sharp teeth have begun to sprout and he’s begging,  _ pleading— _

_ “Dream— _ Dream,  _ please, _ I thought— I thought we’d be  _ happy,  _ I thought we could—“

He steps around the tree trunk between them. Reaches out, like he might just take Dream’s hands.

_ Dream doesn’t want him touching him. _

“George, just  _ stop!” _

George  _ freezes. _

“No,” he whispers, frozen in place, words forced through clenched teeth like  _ he’s resisting something— _

  
  


_ “Names have  _ **_power.”_ **

_ “George was actually my  _ **_original_ ** _ name—“ _

Oh.

“Names have  _ power, huh?” _ The words  _ bite,  _ and tears begin to pool in the corners of George’s eyes, iridescent against the glow of his skin, “Is  _ this _ how you were gonna get me to stay?”

“Please, Dream, you don’t—“

_ “Go away, George.” _

He takes a hurried step back, clenches his teeth again,  _ resisting,  _ shaking his head with vigour.

“Dream,  _ please, I love you, _ please,  _ don’t go—“ _

Dream looks away. Even in his rage, he can’t stand the tears in George’s eyes. Can’t stand how the sorrow tugs at something deeper within him.

_ “George, just go away!” _

The shout  _ rips _ from his throat, painful,  _ powerful. _

There’s a bitter weeping, a sharp bark of hysterical,  _ sobbing laughter. _

The leaf litter shuffles. Branches break.

And then, there is nothing.

  
  


_ “Don’t go—“ _

The silence of the forest begs him, a lost echo of George’s frantic words.

_ “Don’t go—“ _

And despite all the rage, _despite the sickening feeling of betrayal, despite the threat of being trapped, lost in the forest forever, **despite it all,**_ in the silence of the forest, Dream thinks he has never regretted a decision more. 

_ “Don’t go—“ _

Sapnap tells him he’s an idiot, but he lets him cry when he walks back in the door. He lets him fall to his knees,  _ lets him sob, and moan, about how it isn’t fair, and why did this have to happen, why did he have to do this, why, why, why. _

_ “Don’t go—“ _

The silence from the treeline as he struggles to sleep that night is deafening.

_ “Don’t go—“ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what a ride huh?
> 
> first things first though HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY FRIEND STEPH!!!!! this chapter is all for u and i know u didn’t want a sad one but i am afraid that is Not The Case here  
> BUT I WILL MAKE UP FOR IT!!!
> 
> i really truly hope you guys enjoyed this one!!! and again, i’m so sorry it took so long!! i got distracted by  
> things
> 
> i adore you all <3


	10. cocoa hooves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> come on you hermit  
> why don’t you play nice?  
> why don’t you toy with sex and violence?  
> why don’t you stare back  
> into my huge eye?
> 
> why don’t you set my wings on fire?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may notice that there has been a rating change and also a few tags added
> 
> that is literally for this chapter!!!
> 
> cocoa hooves is our second last song, holy crap <3 the lyrics of this track to me seem to reference giving into something dark, giving into something you desire, and regretting past decisions you have once made
> 
> also, on a far less philosophical note, it has the lyrics ‘sex and violence’ in it, so I’ve literally just run with it
> 
> my bad lol
> 
> please enjoy!!!

_Don’t go—_

  
  


The days pass, pass slow, pass painful, pass lonely, George’s lost voice frantic in his mind, echoing from the treeline.

Dream hasn’t gone back to the woods.

_He hasn’t even left the cabin._

Which is fine, _really._ He’s taken plenty of photographs already. They’ve got plenty of material. He doesn’t have to.

But his reasoning lies elsewhere. Lies in the fact that he doesn’t know what he’d find beyond the treeline.

_A man?_

_Or something more wild? More lost?_

_Or nothing at all?_

The days pass painfully.

The nights pass _worse._

Dream sleeps poorly.

He is plagued by nightmares, memories of anguish, of regret, of hypocrisy.

  
He dreams of when he tells George to leave, dreams of the way he’d spat in his face about how what George was doing was sick, was wrong, was cowardly.

He dreams of the hypocritical way that _he_ did what he had scolded _George_ so vehemently for, _using his name,_ something that George had _trusted_ him with even in the very beginning, even when he had had _so many doubts_ about him, solely because he _liked_ Dream, found him _interesting,_ found him _amusing,_ and because Dream _never once lied._

He dreams of the broken look on George’s face when he violated that trust, the crumpling of his expressions, _the remorse, the regret, the fear._

He dreams that, this time, when he forces George back into the woods, that he can _never_ come back.

Dream keeps finding himself like this, sitting up in sweat-soaked sheets, his body electric with the sensation of fear, of regret.

_Each time, he hates himself a little more._

George’s plan had been sick, had been twisted and wrong, yes, and Dream had every right to be mad with him.

_But Dream had still crossed a line._

He thinks of the way he had compared George to the man who had taken his life.

_Maybe the circumstances were similar, yes, but they were not the same._

George had truly believed his plan had the best intentions behind it. Truly believed that if maybe, he could just make Dream stay a little longer, use his name to make him want to stay, that perhaps everything would be okay.

_Perhaps they could be together._

It’s an upsetting realisation when Dream slowly begins to understand why George did what he did.

Sapnap has no sympathy for his regrets.

After all, he had tried to explain things, hadn’t he? Had tried to make Dream see some reason, see through the red, angry glare that had clouded his vision, clouded his judgement.

The things Dream had said pain him, even days onward. They had been barbed, been cruel.

Dream has nightmares of _killing_ George.

Has nightmares of using his name, telling him to leave, to go away, and George sobs, begs, please, and as he does, he crumbles.

_He turns to dust in front of Dream._

Other times, he dreams of that first dance. He dreams of the melting forest as George twirls him, of the chorusing shouts of the animals, only this time, they’re not warning him, they’re warning _George,_ warning him of _Dream,_ frightened, upset, _afraid._

When Dream stops spinning, and he looks down, he sometimes finds a bolo knife in his hands, stained and sickening.

_Sometimes, he finds George’s head._

Those dreams always end in sickness, a race to the bathroom, as the nausea and the fear both fight for purchase.

The nights pass worse.

  
  


It’s on the final day, the day before they leave, when Sapnap finally, _finally_ has enough.

“I am _sick_ of this,” he hisses between his teeth, as he zips up a suitcase, “Either sort it out, or shut _up.”_

Dream glances up in shock, from where he carefully packs away his camera equipment, hands freezing on a lens.

“What?”

“You have done _nothing_ but _sigh,_ and _cry,_ and _bitch,_ and I’m _sick of it,_ man! Fucking do something about it already!”

“Sapnap, we’re leaving tomorrow—“

“Yeah, and I _don’t_ wanna have to hear you keep _whining_ for the next _decade_ if you don’t get to go say goodbye to your psycho boyfriend,” he glares at Dream, “I had to fucking basically _bandage you back together,_ remember that? When you basically nearly died on the couch _twice?_ No _please,_ no _thanks,_ and _now_ I have to hear you _complaining_ all the _time._ I’m _over it_ dude, I’m _serious.”_

The glare he has fixed on Dream is vicious, hard and upset, but eventually he closes his eyes, sighs, and runs a hand over his features, smoothes away the stress.

“Look, I’m _sorry._ But Dream, can you _please_ just think about somebody who isn’t _yourself_ for once? Do this for everyone’s sanity, for god’s sake. Mostly _mine.”_

He stands up in a huff. Stalks away.

_He’s right._

  
  


He’s right, and that’s how Dream finds himself _here._

Finds himself standing just before the edge of the treeline, feet planted firmly on the grassy dirt.

He hesitates. Swallows nervously as he closes his eyes, and hopes George will forgive him for this, for using his name once more.

“George,” he calls into the woods, _“Please,_ come and talk to me.”

_Names have power._

He keeps his eyes closed for a while, scared to open them, and be faced with nothing.

“Why are you _here.”_

The question is deadpan, and his voice sounds off, but it’s _him,_ and Dream lets his eyes fly open.

George stands in front of him, between two young trees, and he looks _awful._

His serpentine eyes flicker in the sunlight, and Dream can see the way his jaw has shifted to adjust for sharp fangs, pointed teeth, and the distortion his voice makes sense.

Dream thinks he can almost see patterns in the exposed skin of George’s neck and arms, a slight shift in shade, mimicking the scales of a snake, his moonlight skin tainted.

  
  


_“You make me want to be human.”_

  
  


_“You’re not human, you’re dangerous.”_

  
  


George’s humanity has slipped. 

It’s all his fault.

_But god, he’s missed him so much._

He takes a step forward, and _aches_ when George steps back, _aches_ when he can see the tears in his eyes.

“I wanted—“ he swallows, “I wanted to come say _goodbye._ I wanted to say _sorry.”_

_“Sorry?”_

George sounds wary, like he can’t quite believe it, like he doesn’t deserve it, and Dream shivers when those elliptical pupils skim over him, scanning him for a lie.

George’s face softens when he can’t find one.

“I know why you did it. I _know,”_ Dream’s voice is choked, “And I’m _sorry,_ George, I _am._ But— But, I can’t stay.”

_And god, how it pains him to say that._

“I just wanted us to be together.”

George’s voice is soft, cautious, afraid, and still so tainted with regret, and for the first time, Dream wishes he _could_ stay. 

Wishes he could leave everything behind.

_But he can’t._

“I love you,” he says instead, weak, strained, _exhausted._

  
George’s facial expressions don’t change. Dream doesn’t even see him check for the lie which isn’t there.

“I know you do,” he responds, and he’s _shaking,_ “That’s what makes it _worse.”_

He’s shaking so violently, almost convulsing from where he stands, just mere feet away, and Dream can’t stand the pain he’s putting him in.

“Can I…”

He trails off. He’s not sure what he wants to ask for. Just knows he wants George, wants George to want him, wants to ease the pain he’s in, the pain they’re both in, even if it’s only for a moment.

“You _can’t,”_ George sobs with the effort of speaking, of pleading, “I’m not _myself,_ I’m not in _control—“_

“You won’t hurt me,” Dream insists.

“I’m not worried about _hurting_ you, you _idiot,”_ and George laughs, but it’s bitter, it’s dark and ugly, twisted around the garbled syllables forced by his teeth, “I’m worried I won’t be able to _stop.”_

Oh.

_Oh._

Dream crashes through the invisible border they’ve defined, demolishes the feet of nothingness between them with the weight of his own body as he collides with George, _collides against his animalistic, primal form, collides against his glistening moonlight skin, collides against his wild boy,_ and winds his arms around him, pulling him close, bruisingly so.

He cuts his lips on pointed teeth when he kisses him, and minds his tongue as George caves, the energy no longer humming off of him in gentle waves, but radiating off of him with force of a gale, vicious and syrupy as he stops trying to resist, stops trying to hold back.

George nips at his mouth, drawing blood with his fangs, and Dream winces but he doesn’t pull away, only pulls closer as the pain settles somewhere low, somewhere sinful and unexpected. George licks at the wound, apologetic despite his ferocity, his rage and his desperation, and Dream gasps at the way he tastes of blood and earth, rust and dirt, and something honey sweet. 

Dream chokes out his sorry’s again, and again, in between kisses, in between rasping breaths and painful, quick inhales of not-enough air. 

George _sobs._

Dream can feel his teeth dissolve, feel the sharp points give way to straight, human teeth as he licks into George’s mouth, desperate to taste him, to make him feel even an _inch_ of what he makes Dream feel.

When he gasps, moans, so wrecked, so needy, so human, so pretty, Dream feels his own restraints break.

George’s shirt is worn through with age, faded from the sun, torn and riddled with holes, courtesy of the forest.

_It’s so easy for Dream to tear._

To rip away the threadbare fabric, to slide his hands across the pale expanse of skin that greets him, run his fingers up along a slender waistline, up, up, over the ribs that peek through moonlight skin, as he leans his head down and mouths at purpled skin, at the thick scar that runs around George’s neck, jagged and aggressive.

He mouths at it, _licks at it,_ kisses where it stretches, and he hopes to god, to the forest, _to whatever might be listening,_ that George can feel the _love,_ feel the _apology,_ feel the _sorrow_ he presses into it.

His bruises _ache,_ and as do his healed wounds and beginnings of scars, when George drags them to the earth, pulling them onto their sides into the soft, fertile soil, into the long strands of grass and long dead leaves.

He can feel his slender fingers tugging at the waistline of his jeans, tugging them down with his underwear in one swift motion. He copies the movement, undoes the zip and the button clasp on George’s ragged jeans, pulls them down, over those delicious hips, over the prominent bones that press against taut moonlight skin, and he throws his head back when George shifts forward and _grinds—_

_Fuck._

_Oh god._

**_Fuck._ **

He grinds themselves together, and lets out the prettiest little sigh, gravelled with desire, and Dream grinds back, relishing in the way that the electric current under George’s skin _hums—_

_Oh my fucking god, yes._

He slots their mouths back together, craving the way George’s tongue slides against his own as they gasp together, and Dream inhales the dark taste of George’s inhale, the taste of bark and maple sap, before he’s falling prey to the way George slides his nails up his back in response, leaving deep, painful scratches and _fuck that might even scar—_

_Dream hopes it will._

Hopes he has a permanent reminder of _this,_ of a constant memory of the way George _feels_ flush against his skin, writhing as he reaches down between them, grips both of their cocks in his hand as he _strokes—_

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the noises George makes, the delectable little pleading moans, as they’re both reduced to gibberish, as the treeline in front of them begins to melt.

As the sky pulses, from blue to neon pink, as George sinks his teeth into the junction between Dream’s neck and shoulders, Dream is so vividly aware of the way that George is losing control beneath him, and he fucking _loves it._

_His wild boy._

_All his._

He tells him this, tells George about how it’ll never be the fucking same, _how he’s so, so sorry, how he’ll always, always be thinking of George, how he’s tainted everything, how he’s never going to forget his perfect, wild boy, how he’s never going to want anyone else, never going to be able to—_

George whines, thrusts up into the hand that grips them, his cock sliding so sinfully against Dream’s again, and again, pre-cum slicking the way, the air thick with honey, with the humidity of lust, with the foolishness of a love that _just won’t work, and—_

“All yours,” George sobs, “All yours, I love you— _I love you,_ Dream.”

_It breaks him._

He cums first, a sharp inhale tearing through his throat, filling his lungs so forcefully as he strokes himself through it, grinds against George, the overstimulation almost unbearable as he cums all over the both of them, slicking the hand that grips them, sticking to their abdomens.

George is close behind, and the way his eyes roll back, the way his jaw drops and his soft, pink lips part when he cries—

It’s wrong, how _perfect_ he looks. How _perfect_ he sounds.

They collapse together. Sweaty and filthy in the leaf litter.

_Crying._

“... I don’t suppose that convinced you to stay,” George laughs, but it falls flat, gets away from him, “Did it.”

It’s not a question.

_He doesn’t need to ask it. He already knows the answer._

Dream holds him closer, wordless, as the tears track his cheeks, and drip from his face, into George’s messy hair.

“You could come,” he tries not to make it sound like he’s begging.

_He fails._

“I don’t think I could,” George admits, fear and longing the basis for his words, “I’ve been gone so long. I think I’d just… _decay.”_

Dream holds him tighter.

Grips his wild boy, afraid that if he pulls away, he’ll disappear, he’ll crumble into dust, return to the earth and slip from his hands, stolen by the forest in front of them.

“I’ll try to come back.”

George nestles further into Dream’s possessive, protective hold. It hurts how well he fits there, so small and perfect.

“Will you?” He asks.

  
  


_Dream doesn’t know._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually wrote the nsfw section of this when i was drunk like, weeks ago, because it’s the only time i can really write nsfw with out requiring a strong 5 minute break every time I write a naughty word
> 
> i am 21 years old
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!! i’m slowly slowly working my way through everyone’s comments on the other chapter/other fics and responding, so trust me, I’ll get to you soon!!
> 
> i love you all <3
> 
> ps: i’m still over on tumblr as genofeve !! I’m most active there, but I also have a Twitter (that I never rly use) under gen_ofeve if you’d rather go there!!
> 
> much love!! stay safe! also probably dont have sex on the forest floor there’s bugs n stuff


End file.
